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TICKET

THE LIBRARY

VICTORIA UNIVERSITY
Toronto

THE YELLOW TICKET

AND OTHER STORIES

FICTION

BETTY-ALL-ALONE
By MEG VIU.AKS. 6/-

THE SHY AGE

JESSIE POPE, 6/-

ANTHONY THE ABSOLUTE

By SAMUEL MERWIN. 6/-

THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE
By FLORKNCK DRUMMOND. 6/-

THE MARRIAGE TIE

I5y WILKINSON SHERRBN. 6/.

BITTERSWEET

By GRANT RICHAKDS. 6/-

DUBLINERS

By JAMES JOYCE. 3/6

GRANT RICHARDS LIMITED

THE YELLOW TICKET

AND OTHER STORIES

FRANK HARRIS

LONDON

GRANT RICHARDS LTD.
MDCCCOXIV

1 5270 1

PKIMTED BY THB RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED
EDINBURGH

CONTENTS

PAOB

THE YELLOW TICKET ..... 7

THE VEILS OF Isis ..... 25

A FRENCH ARTIST . . . . .43

IN THE VALE OF TEARS . . . .71

A DAUGHTER OF EVE . . . . .135

A PROSTITUTE . . . . . .193

ISAAC AND REBECCA ..... 207

A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER .... 237

A FOOL'S PARADISE . . . . .251

THE UGLY DUCKLING *. .271

THE YELLOW TICKET

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THE YELLOW TICKET : JIOLTE
BILET

THE scene is in Moscow, just where the wide
Boulevard meets the Tverskaia. In the middle
of the way is the statue to Puschkin ; on the
right hand, walling the street, the great monastery to
the Passion of Christ. This is the favourite promenade
of the gay-plumaged night-birds of Moscow. They
walk up and down the street in the glare of the shops,
and then cross and go down the Boulevard, shadows
drifting from darkness into the light, and again from
the light into darkness.

One night in the early winter of 1912 a young girl was
among them, warmly but dowdily dressed, like a well-
to-do provincial ; yet she scanned the passers-by as
the professionals scan them, and walked slowly as they
walk, though it was no time for loitering. The winter
had set in early, and already in November the air was
keen with frost, and the stars glittered like diamonds.

A young man came hurrying by : as he passed he
caught sight of the girl's profile and eyes as she lingered
before a shop window. He stopped at once and went
over to her.

44 Are you waiting for anyone ? " he asked.

The girl replied quite quietly :

44 No one in particular."

THE YELLOW TICKET

" Will I do ? " he asked gaily.

She nodded.

His manner changed with her acceptance. For a
moment he put out his hand as if to take her by the
arm, and then drew back.

" I'm so sorry, but I have to dine to-night with some
relatives ; I'm late already," he hurried out, " but I
must know you ; I never saw anyone so pretty. I
can't stay to-night ; I must go now ; I can't get out
of it. You'll meet me to-morrow night, won't you ? "

The girl shook her head.

" But why not ? " he exclaimed. " It's absurd. I
want you ; you have taken my fancy, and I want to
know all about you. Do promise me you will go home
now and be here to-morrow at the same time."

The girl shook her head again : "I can't promise."

" But why not ? " he insisted. " It's absurd.
Suppose I pay you for the evening ? "

He threw open his fur coat and took some notes out
of his waistcoat pocket.

" No, no ! " cried the girl, shrinking away ; " I don't
want money."

" Don't want money ? " he said. " Don't be silly.
What else are you here for ? Now look," he went on
imperiously, "here are ten roubles. Now go home,
and I'll meet you here to-morrow night at half-past
seven exactly. Will you promise ? "

She shook her head ; but he seized her hand and shut
the note in the palm.

THE YELLOW TICKET

" I must go," he cried hurriedly ; " but I'm sure you'll
be here to-morrow ; you're too young to cheat." And
he hurried away.

The girl didn't turn to look after him, but stood for
a moment undecided, then took out a little purse and
pushed in the banknote and resumed her indecisive walk,
now glancing at the passers-by, now with apparently
conscious coquetry stopping in the full glare of some
shop window, loitering.

A little while later another man accosted her.

44 What are you doing ? " he asked.

She looked up as the strong voice reached her.

44 Nothing."

44 And your name ? " he went on, drawing her nearer
still to the glaring light in the window.

44 Rebecca," she said, looking up at him.

44 A Jewess ! " he cried. 44 1 might have known it
with that colouring and those great eyes. But you
don't look Jewish, you know, with that little straight
nose ; and you are new at this game, aren't you ? "

The girl's eyes met his for a moment.

44 Yes," she replied.

44 Will you come and dine ? " he asked.

The girl nodded.

44 Are you free for the night ? "

She paused as if swallowing something before she
nodded.

44 Come on, then," he said ; 44 we'll go and have some
dinner and a talk."

THE YELLOW TICKET

The next moment he had stopped a droschky that
was swinging by behind a black Orloff, and had helped
the girl to a seat.

" To the Hermitage," he said, and the little car
whirled away down the street.

The Hermitage in Moscow is a very convenient estab-
lishment. It has over two hundred suites of rooms,
from five roubles for the night to fifty ; from one room
with a bed in it and the ordinary exiguous toilet require-
ments to a suite of sitting-room, bedroom, and a bath-
room so large that a couple may swim about in it. It
has sixteen entrances, too, and as many exits, so there is
small chance of meeting anyone you don't want to meet.

The man, evidently a well-to-do merchant, selected
a good number, and as they followed the waiter into the
corridor a little bell tinkled, and continued to tinkle
till they got into the sitting-room and the closed door
shut out its ringing.

" What's that bell for ? " asked the girl.

44 Oh, that is one of the customs of the place," said
the man, taking off his gloves and laughing to the
waiter ; 44 isn't it, Ivan ? The bell rings just to warn
people not to leave their rooms till the new-comers are
installed, otherwise one might meet inconvenient people
in the passages. Everything is well arranged in the
Hermitage, that one can say for it."

The girl nodded her head, smiling, and stood ex-
pectant in the middle of the room. Hurriedly, but as
one accustomed to it, the man ordered a good dinner,

THE YELLOW TICKET

and as the waiter left the room he turned with
astonishment to the Jewess :

" What ! " he cried, " you haven't taken off your
hat and coat yet ? " and he came towards her as if to
help her.

At once she hurried over to the nearest glass, put up
her hands, and took off her little fur cap and began
arranging her hair ; then slowly loosening her coat,
she folded the heavy garment carefully, and laid it on
a chair.

The man went on talking the while :

" Lucky it was I met you ; didn't know what to do
with my evening. A man I expected to see failed me
and I was at a loose end, when I caught sight of your
pretty face. But what age are you, Rebecca ? You
look very young," he added, as if remarking her extreme
youth for the first time.

" Sixteen," she said.

14 Really ! " he cried. " I should have thought nine-
teen ; but then you mature more quickly than Russians,
don't you ? "

The girl shrugged her shoulders : "I suppose so."

They were interrupted by the waiter who brought in
dinner, and for the first course or two little was said.
As usual, they had the meat first and then the fish,
Russian fashion. When they had finished the fish, the
man's appetite being quieted a little, he found time to
notice that the girl had hardly touched the food.

44 Come, come," he cried, " you must eat."

THE YELLOW TICKET

" 1 can't," she said ; " I don't feel hungry."

" That is no reason : you must eat," he insisted.
" We live by eating ; and you must drink too," and
he poured her out another glass of sweet champagne.
" You like champagne, don't you ? " he asked.

" It tastes funny," she said, putting her glass down.
" At first it went up in my nose. I never saw it before."

" Really ! " he exclaimed, " then you must be new
at the game. How long have you been in Moscow ? "

The girl seemed to hesitate : looked at him and
looked down.

" You needn't tell me if you don't want to," he said
huffily.

The waiter interrupted them again.

In a few minutes more the meal was finished. The
man lit a cigarette. The waiter left the room for the
last time, the pair were alone.

" Come, Rebecca," said the man. " Come and give
me a kiss."

The girl came round the table and stood beside him.
He put his arm round her and drew her down to his
knee. She seemed awkward, hesitant.

" Where is the kiss ? " he asked, smiling.

The girl turned to him, and kissed his cheek.

" Good God ! " he cried, " you don't call that a kiss,
do you ? What is the matter with you ? " and he
put his cigarette-holder down on the table, and, winding
both arms round her, drew her to him and held his lips
to hers.

THE YELLOW TICKET

She yielded stiffly, reluctantly. After kissing her
for some little time the man pushed her away.

44 Do you call that kissing ? Why, you can't kiss at
all. What's the matter with you ? Give me a proper
kiss."

Again the girl pecked at his cheek.

44 Look here," he said, 44 if I displease you, tell me ;
but don't go on like this ; it's silly."

He rose, looking at her crossly, his vanity smarting.

The girl noticed for the first time when he drew
himself up that he was fine looking, above middle height,
and powerful : a man in the prime of life, thirty per-
haps, with strong face, clean-shaven but for the small
fair moustache.

4 You dislike me ? " he went on, putting his hands
on her shoulders, 44 tell me the truth ? "

44 No," she shook her head.

44 Then why don't you kiss me ? "

44 1 have kissed you."

44 But you know that that isn't kissing," he said.

44 Are there many ways of kissing ? " she asked,
looking up at him.

44 Of course," he said. 44 This is the right way,"
and, taking her head in his hands, he crushed his lips
on hers. 44 Now give me a good kiss, as if you liked me."

With glowing face, the girl gave him another peck.

14 What do you mean ? " he said, sitting down.
" Come, tell me. I must know. Is it pretence witJi
you, or dislike ? "

THE YELLOW TICKET

The girl shook her head.

Suddenly her troubled, hot face gave him a new idea :
44 You're not a novice, are you ? How long have you
been in Moscow ? Where do you live ? Come, tell
me." And he drew her to his knee again.

As the girl sat down she put her right elbow on the
table behind her to keep herself upright and, as luck
would have it, snapped the amber and meerschaum
cigarette-holder. As she started up the man picked up
the cigarette-holder, smiling.

44 1 don't mind," he said, " it doesn't matter. I will
put the cigarette further away on a plate."

44 1 am so sorry," cried the girl.

44 It's nothing," said the man. 44 But tell me, when
did you come to Moscow ? "

The girl stood before him with her hands clasped in
front of her, for all the world like a schoolgirl ; indeed
she was hardly more. She had evidently made up her
mind to speak.

4 This afternoon," she replied.

44 What ! for the first time ? " he asked.

44 For the first time," she repeated.

44 Where do you live ? "

44 Here," she said.

44 Here ? " he repeated ; 4< what do you mean ? "

14 It's a long story," she said, unclasping her hands
and quickly clasping them again.

4 Tell me it," he said. 44 We have time, and I should
like to hear it all," and he drew her towards him.

THE YELLOW TICKET

And standing there by his left knee she told him the
story.

" I came from Gorod by train. It is a long story."

Encouraged by his " Go on," she began again.

44 1 wanted to study at the University. Only three
Jewesses are allowed to come from Gorod to Moscow.
The three who won had been studying for years and
years ; the youngest of them was over thirty. Only
three are allowed each year to leave the town, and
there are thousands of Jewesses in Gorod. I was fourth,
so I would have had to wait another year or perhaps
longer. But as my mother was a widow I soon coaxed
her, and she gave me the money and let me come to
Moscow to study."

" Why do you want to study ? " he asked ; " what's
the good of books ? They only tire pretty eyes."

The girl stared at him in wonder ; the question was
so unexpected, she had to think to find an answer ; she
began confusedly, eagerly :

" I want to know heaps of things, I'm so ignorant,"
she burst out. " I want to be like the great women who
have done things in the world. Oh, I can't say what I
want to ; but I — you know, to be ignorant to-day is
stupid, oh, I "

He nodded, hardly interested, wishing to get the story.

44 And so you came to Moscow ? "

44 This afternoon," she said ; 44 it was already getting
dark. I went to an hotel, but at the hotel — I had taken
a room and everything — before they sent for my box to
B 17

THE YELLOW TICKET

the station they asked me for my passport, and when
I told them I hadn't a passport they changed their
manner at once, said they had no room for me, I had
better go. ...

" I went to a cheaper hotel and showed them that I
had money ; but again, as soon as they found I had no
passport, they turned me out into the streets. ... I
did not know what to do. I spoke to a lady, and she
answered rudely, treated me as if I were a beggar.
So at last I spoke to one of those women who walk up
and down the street. She was kind to me ; she told me
I could not get a lodging anywhere in Moscow without
a passport ; it was not possible. But even when she
found out I was a Jewess she was kind, told me I was
in a bad way, for I should not be able to get a passport,
because the police don't like Jewesses. The only
thing for me to do, she said, was to get a Yellow Ticket
of the — you know — the Yellow Ticket of the prostitute ! "

The man whistled — u Whew ! " — a long, low note.

" She said, as it was early, she would go with me to
the police bureau, and on the way she told me that it
was quite easy to get a Yellow Ticket. I had only to
go in boldly and ask for one and pay fifteen roubles, and
come away. If I had money and wanted to study, I
did not need to — do anything, but with the Yellow
Ticket there were hundreds of houses where I could
get a lodging ; otherwise they'd let me freeze on the
street. . . ."

The girl paused and looked at him.

THE YELLOW TICKET

44 A prostitute is welcome, but not a Jewess, in
Moscow — Christian Moscow," she added as if to herself .

The man laughed and put his arms round her.

44 You are delightful," he said, laughing again. " Well,
what happened then ? "

" I went into the station," the girl went oq, " and
asked one of the policemen where I was to get a 4 Yellow
Ticket.' He tried to kiss me and then took me into the
Inspector's room, and the Inspector came and began
questioning me. When I told him I had just come to
Moscow he tried to kiss me, and I wouldn't let him, so he
said he wouldn't give me a Yellow Ticket unless I let
him kiss me ; well, I let him ; but then he wanted . . .

44 At last I ran out of the place without the Ticket, and
found that my friend had gone away. After a little
while I found another woman, again a woman of the
streets, and told her what had happened. She told me
the only thing she could think of was for me to get a
man and go home with him, and then get him to come
with me in the morning to the police bureau, and a
Yellow Ticket would be given to me at once.

44 The Yellow Ticket," the girl explained, 44 is a sort
of prize in Moscow ! "

44 1 daresay we can manage the Yellow Ticket," said
the man carelessly. 44 But are you really a novice ? "

The girl nodded.

44 You would rather not begin the game ? "

She nodded quickly, eagerly.

44 What an adventure ! " he cried, stretching out his

THE YELLOW TICKET

arms. " Do you know, it is rather lucky you have
fallen into good hands, Rebecca ? You interest
me. Strangely enough, I don't want to kiss anyone
particularly who doesn't want to kiss me. That is
strange, isn't it?" he asked, laughing.

" No," she said, " it seems to me quite natural."

" That is because you are a girl," he replied, smiling.
44 It isn't natural to most men. Come, now, do you
want to go in there and sleep alone ? What would
you like me to do ? Let you sleep alone and then help
you to get the Yellow Ticket in the morning, or
go in there with you and have a good time ? " and
he nodded to the bedroom.

" Alone," she cried. " Do you mind ? But then,
where are you to sleep ? " she added ruefully.

" Oh, I can sleep there," he said, pointing to the sofa ;
" I have often slept in worse places. I will read some
papers I have got in my overcoat, and you can go in and
go to bed." He spoke as if dismissing her, and the girl
went hesitatingly towards the bedroom door. At the
door she turned and looked at him. He nodded, smiling,
and waved his hand to her.

" That's all right," he said ; " have a good sleep."

" I'd like," she said, coming back a little way towards
him, " I'd like to kiss you."

" Come along," he said, and she came back to him
slowly across the room, and this time she yielded herself
to him and left her lips on his. He lifted her away at
last, and said :

THE YELLOW TICKET

" Now ? " half interrogatively.

The girl cried quickly :

44 Good-night ; thank you so much ; good-night,"
and, running across the room, disappeared into the
bedroom and closed the door.

For a moment or two the man looked at the door,
smiling ; then he got up and went to his overcoat, took
out some papers, lit another cigarette, and settled down
to read in the arm-chair.

An hour later there was unbroken silence in the room.
The man got up, stretched himself, took off his collar
and coat, undid his boots, arranged his big fur overcoat
as covering, then went to the door of the bedroom and
listened : all was still. He put his hand on the handle :
he could hear his heart throb.

After a pause he turned away and threw himself
down on the sofa. In ten minutes he was asleep.

Shortly before eight o'clock the man woke, got up
and opened the windows, rang the bell and ordered
breakfast, went into the bathroom and bathed his face
and hands. While the waiter was laying the table, he
went out hurriedly. In an hour he returned and went
over and knocked at the girl's door. A moment later
he heard her voice, and went in. She was standing fully
dressed before him.

44 Slept well ? " he asked.

44 Thanks to you ! " she nodded, and the deep eyes
dwelt on him.

THE YELLOW TICKET

" Been up long ? " he asked.

" Two hours." she replied.

" Oh, you early bird ! Now come and have breakfast.
I have news for you."

" I have news for you too," she said, following him
to the table. " This is a funny place."

" Why do you call it funny ? " he said, taking up
some salt fish on his fork.

" Because I came in while you were sleeping," she
said, " and tried to go out. I wanted to buy you a
cigarette-holder for the one I broke, but when I got to
the entrance I was stopped. They told me I couldn't
go out without you. It appears I might have robbed
you, or murdered you, so I was escorted back here and
told to wait. It is a funny place, the Hermitage."

" Do you know, you are a dear," he said, " to have
thought of that holder," and he stretched out his hand
to her. She came now willingly and stooped her dark
head to his fair one and kissed him.

" That's better ! " he cried. " You are making great
progress. Fancy ! You have learned to kiss quite
nicely in twenty-four hours ; that is very quick."

14 Very easy," she said saucily, " when the heart
teaches the lips.

u So you do like me a little ? " he asked.

Again the eyes dwelt on him.
1 Yes," she replied simply.

As if trying to shake off an unwonted emotion, he got
up and said in his ordinary quick tone :

THE YELLOW TICKET

44 1 have been out trying to do something for you,"
and he took out his pocket-book and laid it on the
table.

She noticed that his nails were more carefully kept
than her own ; she liked the evidence of care.

4 You interested me last night," he said, 4t and I
wanted really to do something for you, and persuade
you to like me, I don't know why."

14 That was good of you," she said, coming over
and standing beside him ; 44 but I do like you," she
added softly.

44 1 thought perhaps you might," he said, putting his
arm round her, 44 but, curiously enough, I wanted you to
be free, quite free ; so I went out and got you baptized,
you little Jewess," and he turned up the pretty, glowing
face with his hand and kissed her on the lips.

He went on speaking with mock gravity :

44 Your name now is Vera Novikoff, and not Rebecca
Rubinovitch."

44 Vera Novikoff ? " the girl marvelled.

44 Yes," he said, taking a paper out of his pocket-book.
44 Everything can be bought in Moscow, and I went out
to buy a passport for you, and I bought a passport
this morning in the name of Vera Novikoff, and as
Vera Novikoff you can live in Moscow wherever you
please, how you please, unmolested."

44 How good of you ! " she cried. 44 1 knew you were
good. But it must have cost you a lot of money ? "

44 No," he said, smiling into her eyes. 44 No, strange

THE YELLOW TICKET

to say, Vera, it was cheaper than the Yellow Ticket.
You said the Yellow Ticket was fifteen roubles ; I paid
twelve for this. It is cheaper, you see," and he held it
towards her.

The girl took it in her hands, and said, simply, slowly,
as if to herself :

" Cheaper 1 Yes, it costs less than the Yellow
Ticket.

THE VEILS OF ISIS

TOWARDS the end of the second dynasty a
youth whom his father and mother had named
Amanthes came to manhood near the village
of Assouan on the Nile. From childhood on he had
been self-willed and passionate beyond the ordinary,
and growing in boldness and intelligence he took the
lead of the other young men. Because of his superi-
ority his father and mother, though poor cultivators,
were persuaded to devote him to the priesthood. And
as the young man was nothing loth they took him one
day to the Temple of Osiris. The Chief Priest received
them with kindness, for the youth's promise had been
noised abroad and he spoke to them warmly in favour
of the God whom he worshipped and his divine mission :
he told them how Osiris had come down from Heaven
to help men and had suffered Death for their sakes
through the Powers of Darkness. With tears in his eyes
he told of the resurrection of the God and how at the
last He should judge the dead.

Scarcely had he finished when Amanthes cried :
44 Can a God be defeated ? Why didn't Osiris
conquer the Darkness ? " and other such things.

And when his father and mother, terrified by his
boldness, tried to restrain him, for the Chief Priest

THE VEILS OF ISIS

held up his hands in deprecation, Amanthes went on
stoutly :

" I can't adore a God who accepts defeat ; and I
don't fear judge or judgment. I want to worship Isis,
the woman-goddess, the giver of life, for her creed of
joy and hope and love must endure as long as the earth
lasts and the sun gives light."

The Chief Priest pointed out that the temples to
Osiris were larger and more important than any other,
and the service of the God was nobler and more highly
rewarded, but Amanthes would not be persuaded, in-
sisting that the only divinity he could worship was Isis,
to whose service he was willing to devote himself night
and day with all his heart.

Impressed by his earnestness and enthusiasm, the
Chief Priest at length decided that it might be as well
if Amanthes went down the river to Memphis to the
great Temple of Isis, and as the young man took fire
at the suggestion he offered to give him letters to the
High Priest which would ensure his being accepted, and
he excused himself to his colleagues for this weakness
by saying that he had never met so eloquent a youth or
so sincere a calling. Amanthes, he said, seemed care-
less about everything else, but the moment the name
of Isis was mentioned his eyes glowed, his face became
intense, and it really looked as if the youth were
inspired.

Ten days later Amanthes journeyed down the river
to Memphis, and presented himself before the authorities

THE VEILS OF ISIS

of the Temple of Isis. But lu-.v his passion carried little
persuasion, and at first it seemed as if his desire would
be thwarted. The High Priest read the letter of his
colleague and, after one glance at Amanthes, proposed
to engage him as a servitor in the Temple, but thought it
right, at the same time, to warn him that only the best
and noblest were selected to wait on the Goddess herself,
and that before one could hope to enter her immediate
Presence one must have spent half a lifetime in the
temple.

44 It took me," he said, " nearly five years to learn the
routine of the service."

Amanthes listened with wide eyes and bowed in
silence to the High Priest's decision, but from the very
day he entered the temple he set himself to learn all
the ritual and ceremonial forms, and devoted himself
with such passion to whatever was given to him to
do that he became a marked man among the younger
priests.

Though he held himself aloof from all his comrades,
he was not much disliked by them, for whenever his
father and mother sent him presents of dates or dainties
he shared them out among the others, contenting him-
self always with the simple sustenance provided in the
Temple.

To his father and mother he wrote but once, telling
them to look upon him as dead, for he had given himself
to the service of the Goddess with heart and life and for
him there was no looking back.

THE VEILS OF ISIS

A few months after his admission to the Temple,
Amanthes took a chance opportunity and begged the
High Priest to enrol him among the immediate servants
of the Goddess.

" I know all the forms and ceremonies by heart,"
he said, " and am eager now to learn the will of the
Goddess herself."

The High Priest was greatly astonished ; but though
he found by examining the young man that he was
indeed a master of all the services, he would not grant
his request.

" You have still much to learn/' he said, " before you
can hope for such honour, and the next test is difficult,"
he added. He took Amanthes to the library of the
Temple and showed him a room filled with great rolls
of papyrus, and priests studying them.

" They are all at work," he explained, " interpreting
the divine Oracles."

" But where are the Sayings of the Goddess ? " cried
Amanthes, as if nothing else mattered.

" Here," said the High Priest, turning over one small
yellow roll, " are the sacred words of the Divine One, the
words which have been commented upon by wise men
for thousands of years, and before we can believe that
anyone is worthy to enter the shrine of the Goddess he
must first show his fitness by interpreting her oracles, or
correcting some of the commentators who have gone
before."

" Let me first see the Goddess and learn her will,"

THE VEILS OF ISIS

argued the young man, " when I know her I shall be
able to interpret her words."

44 Presumption ! " cried the High Priest, " mortals
can only get glimpses of the Divine, and can never know
the divine Will completely, any more than they can see
the Goddess unveiled."

All the young man's pleading was met with a steady
refusal : it was unheard of that any priest should be
admitted to the Shrine of the Deity before he had
passed at least ten years in the Temple.

41 1 myself," said the High Priest at length, 44 knew
all the Oracles and had written two great books upon
them before I was admitted in my twelfth year of
service, and even then I only served at the door, and
never entered the Shrine but with eyes bound so that
I might not look upon the naked beauty of the
Goddess."

Amanthes pleaded with him as one pleads for life ;
but still the High Priest remained obdurate.

4 4 There are the Oracles, " he said, pointing to the books,
44 distinguish yourself and I will shorten the time of your
probation as much as I dare, or as custom will allow."

Amanthes once more bowed his head and took his
place among the students.

In the seventh month of the same year Amanthes
interpreted a saying of the Goddess with such freedom
that all the readers cried blasphemy against him, and
brought him before the High Priest to answer for the
crime. Amanthes defended himself with much bold-
Si

THE VEILS OF ISIS

ness and many good reasons, till the High Priest
cried :

" You read the Oracles as if the Goddess were a
woman and nothing more, and that is wrong."

" How else can they be read ? " retorted Amanthes.
" If she is not a woman one can never understand her,
and if she is more than a woman we men can only get
to the divine through the human."

The High Priest himself was shaken, and hesitated to
decide, for in the course of the argument he had found
that the young man had read the sacred Roll from
beginning to end, and knew every wrord of the Goddess
by heart.

" How did you learn them," he couldn't help asking,
" in so short a time ? "

Amanthes only looked at him smiling, by way of
answer, and again begged the Chief Priest to admit
him now to the service of the Goddess, for he had surely
proved himself and been patient. There was nothing
to gain by waiting.

But immemorial custom was against him and the
High Priest resented his insistence.

' You are too daring," he said at length ; "it may
be well to use boldness to a woman, but to a Goddess
you must show reverence."

" No, no," cried Amanthes, " reverence to the
woman, who doesn't expect it and will be won by it,
boldness to the Goddess."

" Blasphemy," cried the High Priest ; " you are on

THE VEILS OF ISIS

a dangerous way and I must not encourage you," and
motioning to the great bronze door, behind them, he
added : " Go on diligently as you have begun and it
will be open to you perhaps after five years."

" Five years ! " repeated Amanthes sadly ; " five
years of life and youth lost : five years ! "

44 That door has never opened in less," replied the
High Priest solemnly, but as he spoke Amanthes
gripped his arm, crying :

44 Look, look ! " and when the High Priest turned he
found the door of the Shrine stood open.

" Strange," said the old man ; 44 it must be some
accident ; I will shut it," and he seized the handle, but
the door would not be moved ; and as he stood there
all shaken and hesitating Amanthes with eyes aflame
cried out :

44 See, Isis the Beloved, Isis herself has answered my
prayer."

And Amanthes moved as if to enter the sacred
place, but thr lliirh Priest held him, warning :

44 If you enter without reverence and bound eyes you
\\ill die on the threshold."

Amanthes laughed aloud and strode past him into the
Shrine, and as the High Priest held up his hands in fear
and horror, the bronze door drew to of itself and closed
between them.

From this time on Amanthes was constantly in the
Shrine of the Goddess. Indeed, he scarcely gave him-
self time to eat or sleep, and everyone remarked how
c 33

THE VEILS OF ISIS

thin he grew and haggard with the constant service.
And when, after some months, the High Priest warned
him that his health would break down, and told him
that he must not forget that the chief thing was the
interpretation of the Oracles, Amanthes answered
impatiently :

" 1 know nothing yet : the Goddess vouchsafes no
answer to my entreaties ! How can one interpret
without knowledge. ' '

Now there was a tradition that in the first dynasty
a young priest had been consumed in the service of
Isis, and had wasted away before the Goddess, till one
day he was translated into flame and disappeared in a
moment, and it crossed the High Priest's mind that
Amanthes was on the same road, and likely to meet the
same fate, and he desisted from admonishing him, fear-
ing to make bad worse. He left the young man to his
own devices, till strange tales came to him from the
other priests that set all the Temple whispering.

It was put about that at night Amanthes used to
speak to the Goddess as if she were a woman, and touch
her statue as if the limbs were flesh. He had been over-
heard entreating her as a lover entreats his mistress,
telling over her beauties adoringly, and entreating
her to lift the veil that prevented him enjoying her
divine loveliness. When all the priests were muttering,
and wondering how the impious boldness would be
punished, one came to them with ashen face and a
stranger tale.

THE VEILS OF ISIS

4 The Goddess has answered Amanthes," he gasped;
" Isis asked him why lie wanted the veil lifted, and he
stretched forth his arms and cried : c For Love's sake,'
and as he spoke the Goddess trembled, and I fled, for
indeed the sacred veil liad begun to fall away

The priests wouldn't credit the tidings. But when
Amanthes came forth from the Shrine some believed, for
he was as one transfigured. He spoke to no man, but
went straight to his cell, and from this time on he was
continually heard praising the Goddess in song and
glorifying her Service.

A little later Amanthes went to the High Priest and
asked him to be allowed to write an interpretation of
the Oracles, and his interpretation was at once so bold
and simple that the High Priest was amazed by it and
frightened, and asked him how he dared to treat the
divine words so boldly, and the young man answered
quietly now and in all humility :

" Love is my only guide, and the boldness of love is
reverence."

The High Priest bowed his head, for in spite of
himself he was moved by the young man's tone and
unaccustomed humbleness. And when the servitors
came to the High Priest and demanded that Amanthes
should be punished for insolent boldness he shook his
head and rebuked them impatiently. And when they
persisted, declaring that the worship of Amanthes for
the Goddess was an outrage and insult to her, he
answered simply :

THE VEILS OF ISIS

" The Goddess can protect herself."
It was evident to all that he did not believe the
slanders. And indeed such portions of the interpreta-
tions of Amanthes as the High Priest thought fit to
publish were so astonishingly simple and convincing
that they won many to admiration, and his fame was
noised abroad throughout all the land of Egypt, and
people came from afar to hear his words and to listen
to his interpretation of the divine speech.

And his humility now was as evident as his boldness
had been aforetime.

"I know nothing," he said: "I am but a reed
through which the Goddess speaks : of myself
nothing."

His modesty impressed the people more than any
assurance would have done, and when he served Isis
in public the great Temple was thronged and all the
people stirred by the fervour of the ritual, and when
at the end he knelt before the Goddess, to recite the
formal benediction, he prayed with such passion that
everyone was affected, and the worship of the
Goddess, the Giver of Life, spread on all sides and
grew mightily.

The success of Amanthes made many of the priests
envious, and sharpened the jealousy of those who had
been against him from the beginning. And of these one
of the chief was that servitor who had already spied
upon him, and reported his entreaties of the Goddess
to the High Priest. This man had been one of the most

THE VEILS OF ISIS

learned of the commentators before Amanthcs had
appeared. He did not know all the words of the
Goddess like Amanthes, but he knew by heart all the
comments that had been made on them and all the inter-
pretations for a thousand years, which were indeed in
themselves a great library. He had been supplanted
by the coming of Amanthes, and now lived for nothing
but his undoing. One day he came to the High Priest
with a mysteiious air and a slander vhieh he would not
tell, and when the High Priest pressed him to say what
it was he withstood him.

" I will not repeat what I have heard," he said,
14 nor soil my lips with the blasphemy. Come and
hear for yourself."

And when the High Priest refused to come, for he
was very old and fearful of shocks, the slanderer
insisted :

" You will see Amanthes," he said, " at his foul work ;
and you will see Her too, and you shall judge whether
such things are to be permitted."

He spoke with such horror and hinted at such
practices that the High Priest at length consented to
go to his cell with him and spy upon Amanthes ; for his
cell joined the Shrine itself, and was only separated from
it by one wall. And he showed the High Priest that,
when his cell was darkened, they could see between two
layers of the stone everything that went on in the Shrine
of the Goddess and hear every word as distinctly as
if they had been within the sacred place.

THE VEILS OF ISIS

And when the High Priest and servitor were listening
Amanthes entered the Shrine and stood before the
Goddess. And they saw that he had come as from the
bath, for his neck shone and his linen had been bleached
by the Nile water. For some time he stood in dumb
entreaty with hands outstretched, and the High Priest
thought that the Goddess trembled before the dumb
intensity of the appeal, and he turned his head aside
for he would not trust his eyes.

At length Amanthes spoke, and the High Priest
scarcely recognised his voice :

" How long ? " he cried. " How long ? "

And his arms fell as if in despair, and he sighed heavily
as one in pain. And suddenly he went over to the
Goddess, and put his hands upon her hips, and the Chief
Priest turned aside breathless, for he would not look,
though the servitor with sharp-set eyes nudged him.
But he heard Amanthes speaking, and as he spoke
he turned again to the Shrine, and this was what he
heard:

" How long am I to wait, O Queen ; how long ?
Before I knew you I worshipped you, and every favour
you have accorded me has fed my passion. When you
removed the first veil you showed me a new Isis, even
lovelier than my imagining, and I stood entranced ; and
every veil you have taken off since has revealed some
new perfection hitherto undreamed. Am I then un-
worthy to have the last veil lifted ? Unworthy,, though
consumed with adoration."

THE VEILS OF ISIS

And as his hands touched the Goddess, the High
Priest saw that she trembled as if she had been llrsh
and blood, and his breath caught, for the Godd< ^
spoke.

14 If I refuse," said Isis, " it is for your sake,
Amanthes," and her hand touched his hair.

And Amanthes cried aloud :

" To refuse one thing is to refuse all : love knows n< >
denials : I would see you as you are, as the Gods see
you face to face."

And the High Priest shuddered in fear, for the grave
voice of the Goddess was heard again :

" No woman's soul can resist love : to-morrow it
shall be as you desire."

And they saw Amanthes twine his arms round the
Goddess and kiss her limbs, and with the last look the
High Priest saw that he was prone before the Shrine
with his lips pressed against the feet of Isis.

And the High Priest as he went would not even
speak with the servitor, for he was full of apprehension,
and torn in many ways, partly by affection for Amanthes,
partly by curiosity, and most of all for fear of what
would happen on the morrow.

In the morning he gave orders that the servitor
should be in close attendance upon himself, and that his
cell, from which one could look into the Shrine, should
be shut, and he ordained twenty -four hours of solemn
fasting and prayer for all the priests, and decreed that
the Temple should be closed.

THE VEILS OF ISIS

In the second hour, after the orders had been given,
Amanthes came to him, and the High Priest hardly
dared to look on him, for his face was as the face of
one who had talked to the God and won his soul's
desire.

But Amanthes stretched out his strong hands and
caught the old man by the shoulders, and said in his
rich voice :

" I thank you. You have done what I would have
ordered in your place."

And the High Priest gasped :

" Are you not afraid ? "

"Afraid?" he cried. " To-night is the night for
which I was born," and as he turned and went the
High Priest saw his shining eyes and felt a little
envious.

The morning after the great fast the High Priest
went himself to the Shrine with all his attendants robed
and in order as to solemn service. And after the three
prayers the bronze doors were opened; and there,
stretched before the Goddess, lying prone was Amanthes.
And the moment the High Priest saw him he knew that
the youth was dead, and when he looked up at the
Goddess he saw she was veiled as usual, and her hands
were by her side.

All that he had seen and heard twenty-four hours
before, and all that he had feared, were to him as a
dream.

The body of Amanthes was already cold, and the

THE VEILS OF ISIS

priests knew that he must have died in the first hour of
the night. They came together in solemn meeting and
heard the story of the servitor.

And one of the older priests rose and said that surely
the death contained a great lesson.

" As soon as the mortal saw the Immortal, life ceased ;
for who can look upon the Godhead and live ? Death
is the punishment of such boldness."

And many of the priests agreed with this ; but
another priest objected.

" We mortals," he began, " have surely something of
the divine in us, or we would not even wish to see the
Gods as they are ; nor perhaps be able to if they allowed
us. But behind all the Gods, behind Isis and Osiris
and Horus, there is a power greater than themselves,
Fate, which to mortals is Death. And this was shown
to Amanthes, for when the last veil was lifted, instead of
the Goddess he adored, he saw the death's head, and
the image of death took him."

But another priest rose and said :

44 Surely the result might have been expected. As
veil after veil fell. Ainantlies saw one incarnation after
another of divine beauty, and his soul was ravished.
But when the last veil was stripped off Amanthes found
that his divinity was in reality an ordinary woman,
and his heart turned to water and his soul
died."

And this interpretation seemed most reasonable to
the majority of the priests.

THE VEILS OF ISIS

But the people knew better, for when the story was
told outside the Temple a woman cried :

" The truth is plain ! Having at last found a perfect
lover, the Goddess took him with her to Amenti,
the land beyond the Darkness."

A FRENCH ARTIST

ONE night after dining with Henri Dartier, the
critic and writer who has done so much to
make modern English literature comprehensible
to Frenchmen, we went into Pousset's brasserie, where
from time to time one can meet most of the leaders of
French thought.

Presently a pair came into the room who drew all
eyes. The man was like a high priest, with black hair
and long, silky black beard, regular features and pallid
skin. As he came nearer the impression was deepened :
he was a very handsome man of about thirty-five, the
great, dark eyes were superb and there was a certain
majesty in the portly dignified figure. He dressed the
part, too : he wore no collar, or rather the collar was a
band of black moire silk which seemed to form part of
his waistcoat — not a spot of colour about him — a study
in black and white, for the black clothes set off the
pallor of the skin. Beside him a tiny girl's figure, her
head reaching only to his breast ; her pale, gold hair was
banded round her ears, framing her face, sharpening the
thin oval of it, and accentuating the rather peaked,
prominent nose, the red mouth and small, bony chin.
Her eyes held one — large, grey-blue eyes, enigmatic —
emptied of expression. She might have stepped out of

A 1FRENCH ARTIST

a canvas of Botticelli — an immature virgin, full of char-
acter, by some primitive master. The contrast between
the two was so astounding — the individualities of both
so marked and so uncommon, that I turned eagerly
to Dartier, who knows everyone, to learn about
them.

" Yes, I know them," he replied to my question ;
"he is from Provence, an artist, Piranello : the girl's
his wife."

"His wife?" I cried. "She might be his
daughter."

Dartier shrugged his shoulders.

" She is older than you think."

" I should like to know them," I remarked.

" Nothing easier," was his reply, and he got up and
called out, " Piranello, mon ami ! "

A nearer acquaintance only sharpened my curiosity.
Piranello was to me a new type ; there was something
of the pontiff not only in his looks, but in his nature ;
in his unaffected seriousness, in the slow gestures of his
long, white ringers ; something hieratic in his dignity
and repose, a consciousness of individual worth, that
would have been pompous in anyone less simple and
sincere.

And his wife, Claire, was just as singular a personality.
She talked very little ; was very quiet ; her extra-
ordinary self -repression was in itself a distinction, yet
each of her words counted, and if a good thing was said,
or anything to excite her, any cry of passion or of revolt,

A FKKNTII ARTIST

thctliin nostrils would vibrate. Hie < ; m. jindthe

whole l';iee sharpen 1o intensity.

Pirancllo was very courteous. In answer to the
(jiiestions of Dartier, lie said he had done no painting
lately, but was interested in enamels and mosaics.

44 The beginnings of half-a-dozen arts," he remarked,
44 or the culminating points, whichever you like. I have
bron busy, too, with some new jewellery," and his long,
white fingers waved toward an ornament on the blue of
his wife's dress. It was an imitation of a pearly oyster-
shell, with a great pink pearl in the cup and a tiny black
one at the side. Madame Piranello detached it from
her dress without a word, and handed it to me. I could
not help exclaiming with admiration ; it was an
astonishing copy in some metal or other and curiously
enamelled; the outside as rough as any oyster-shell,
while the inside had a milky radiance, shot through
with faint colours, like the most lovely mother-of-pearl,
u perfect setting for the great gem. It would have
been hard to find a more effective or extraordinary
piece of jewrellery.

" Jewellery should be barbaric," Piranello said ; 44 the
gem is the reality ; the artist must set it to show off
its beauty, its strangeness, its individuality. It is
what an incident of real life is to the story-teller ; he
should only use it if it suits him, if he can make
it significant — beautiful or terrible. Two or three
diamonds side by side in a ring ; a whole row of pearls
cheek by jowl in a necklace, are merely symbols of

A FRENCH ARTIST

vanity and wealth — evidence of vulgar bad taste. The
pearls are selected because of their likeness one to
another ; whereas the charm of pearls, as of everything
else, is in their unlikeness to each other. That is why
I put my tiny black pearl there, to set off the exquisite
pink glow of the master-gem."

The man interested me, and the woman had a certain
attraction ; I was glad when, in answer to a request by
Dartier, Piranello invited me to visit his studio.

" I have got my forge," he said, " just off the Rue
Ramey, away up beyond the Butte de Montmartre,
where one is hidden from the hive, and Claire has made
an interesting room or two, which you may care to
see."

When we parted for the night I asked Dartier about
him.

|C You will see for yourself," he said. " Piranello
has a real talent. He made a name ten years ago in
Paris by painting girls like the Primitives, and old men
like Balzac. Perhaps because his pictures affected us
a good deal we used to call them ' the wicked virgins and
wise saints.5 We Parisians alway smock our 'emotions.
You will see for yourself next Wednesday."

On Wednesday I drove up to the Butte, and then
got down and walked nearly to the fortifications along
the slope of the hill turned away from Paris. There in
a waste place I found the artist's house and studio.
The house was the ordinary French box of the banlieu,
and from the outside seemed absolutely commonplace.

A FRENCH ARTIST

But the door opened into a great vaulted room, like the
refectory of some old convent. A staircase at the far
end led to the upper part of the house. Beyond it I
was told was the tiny kitchen. Between the arches of
the vaulted room were paintings Of Primitives done on
panels, and here and there Primitive statues of saints
in stone and marble. The furniture was all early
Renaissance ; the whole room of the time of Henry II.

The little lady who came to meet me belonged to the
same period. Claire seemed a little angular, a little
stiff, just as the Gothic saints seemed a little stiff,
because of the pointed folds of their drapery.

Piranello, she said, was in his studio. Would we
care to look at the room first ; we did care. It was
a feast to the eye. Not many things in it, but every-
thing chosen with unerring knowledge and taste. Here
was a St Rocque, standing with compassionate hands
outspread over a lady who was ministering to his wound
— an atmosphere of human pity and suffering about the
group -svliic'li o ripped the heart. On the other side of
the white vault a St Louis in the same hard, grey stone
with the cross on his breast and the fleur-de-lis of France
on his raiment, the fingers of the right hand uplifted in
a gesture of admonition. Next to him a triptych of
some early Florentine painter, noteworthy for the suave
beauty of the faces, and for a page whose right hand is
toying with a jewelled dagger while he waits on the
Virgin.

Over the door by which I had entered was a window
D 49

A FRENCH ARTIST

of Renaissance glass, which threw gules of crimson and
primrose on the narrow oak table. On the table itself
a vase of alabaster with one yellow rose in it. The
simplicity and unity of effect made a singular appeal.

The little lady led me out by a side door under the
stairs, and we found ourselves at once in the studio,
where Piranello was at work. The studio was evidently
built on for the sake of the light from above, which
could be shaded at will with heavy, dark curtains. It
was paved like the room we had just left with great
slabs of stone, and at one end stood a huge forge, with
immense bellows, which a little boy was working.
Piranello came to meet us in an old blue blouse, all
stained with blotches of paint and many scorchings.
He had been working at a crucifix. The conception was
ingenious. An enormous cliff-like hill of some rough
metal represented the Calvary, with forests, lakes and
footpaths of a dozen colours, and toiling up the hill little
figures of men and women of every race and every
variety of costume. On the top the wooden cross all
empty, with gouts and clots of blood on the nails and
arms, and at the foot a woman prostrate — sorrow in
every line of the broken figure.

" I never care to attempt the figure of the ' Crucified
One,' " said Piranello quietly, "it is the cross itself
which is of such significance — the instrument of torture
and death turned into a symbol of faith and hope."

It is curious when you come to know someone who

A FRENCH ARTIST

is a personage how astonished you are afterwards by
the amount of talk that goes on about him. I hud never
heard of Piranello or his wife before, but after visiting
them I seemed to hear of them on all sides. Some
people declared that it was his wife and her strange
beauty which had given him all his talent. But when
you talked of the heads of his old men, modelled with
extraordinary realism and understanding — heads weird
and tortured and inspired — the critics shrugged their
shoulders and thrust forth their lips contemptuously.
Their malevolence did not weaken the impression made
upon me by the artist and his wife.

In time I got to know Piranello rather well. The
question of his wife's importance to his art interested
me vaguely. One day he showed me a wonderful picture
done some years before of " Susanna and the Elders,"
in which his wife's girlish beauty was exposed with
extraordinary realism and emotion, while lust itself
was incarnate in the vicious masks of the peeping old
men.

4 You have been extraordinarily fortunate in your
wife as a model," I exclaimed, " an ideal figure, is she
not ? " for indeed the unveiled charm of her adolescence
redeemed the whole scene.

Unconscious of what was passing through my mind,
Piranello remarked casually :

" A good model : art begins in imitation, but it must
become interpretation before it's worth much."

" Her figure is not only lovely," I went on, " but

A FRENCH ARTIST

just what you wanted here to lift the portraits of those
ignoble old beasts to the plane of great art — a wonder-
ful model ! How lucky you were to find her."

I had roused him at last.

" Not lucky," he said, " luck had nothing to do with
it. We artists have always our models in our heads.
I'll explain if you like. Quite early I was taken by the
Primitive masters ; I suppose their sincerity, naivete
and frankness appealed to me — the more complicated
we are, the more simplicity moves us. Then I went
to Northern Italy, and studied the beginnings of paint-
ing as I might have gone to Flanders, or indeed to Russia.
Do you know that the Russian school of painting dates
from the early part of the fifteenth century ? I could
show you a picture of a Russian Primitive which you
would mistake for an Italian. I went to Orvieto and
Ravenna and spent three weeks there : I learned a great
deal from Signorelli ; the astounding vigour, directness
and force in him and in other early masters affected me
with pleasure as poignant as pain.

" Gradually I began to find myself. The passion in
me gave me an ideal of girlhood, and I began to see
what I wanted. . . . But I had no formula, you under-
stand, no symbol. I began doing girls' portraits in-
genuously, catching a glimpse of innocence here, and
there the dawning of a child's soul. Bit by bit the
surprising richness of life revealed itself to me, and I
began seeking, seeking, and as soon as I began to seek
with faith I began to find on this hand and on that

A FRENCH ARTIST

models with the features and figures I wanted for this
or that effect. Gradually my own desires grew definite
and distinct and then I met my wife. . . . Was she sent
to me, or did my desire call her out of the crowd ? She
affected me like a piece of music heard in some previous
existence, my whole soul was poured out like water at
her feet. I was all one hunger and thirst for her, and
she cared for me as well. ... Of course her dress was
all wrong, and her hair stupid — modern ; she had been
trying to make her face pretty like everyone's face, like
the face of a fashion plate. I showed her what her face
really was, the distinction of it, and what her figure
was and the subtle, superlative attraction of it. ...
She sri/rd on the idea womanlike, and as soon as she
dressed as I wished, and saw the sensation she created
when she went abroad, she developed the idea with
great talent. She's very fine. ..."

4 That explains part of your work, but it does not
explain the other side of your talent — your men's
heads. . . ."

" The interest of a man's face," he said, " is all of
the intellect, spiritual, while the woman's is all of the
body ; the ideal of the one is passion and suffering ;
the ideal of the other grace and innocence. I love a
man's head when it is worn with intense feeling and
furrowed with thought, the mask of the foul bird of
prey with the great Jew nose, greedy, coarse mouth
and obscene vulture neck. I love the broad face of the
lion, with the square jaw, low forehead, heavy brows :

A FRENCH ARTIST

courage, cruelty, hate, all stamped on it : or the narrow
mask of avarice with its thin lips and pointed teeth :
the smile of conscious power and the claw-like, grasping
fingers. Oh, I come across superb men's heads every-
where. But strange to say, it is life which supplies
me with all my ideals of men : the models themselves
suggest the artistic treatment, indicate the heightening
touches, whereas with the girls' faces and figures the
idea is always within me, suggested by desire. ... I
don't know which is the more effective artistically :
probably my girls are truer, deeper than my men.
They have less of life in them, and more of ideal beauty :
sometimes I think it is the ideal that endures, and
sometimes life and the sense of life, but I don't know
— no one knows. . . .

" I am still seeking, seeking, but I have got out on
a bypath, I'm afraid. My first impulse seems to be
exhausted. ... I don't mean that," he added quickly.
" I mean that it is accomplished in some sort. I think
of going to Belgium and Holland. I want fecundating.
All this cursed enamel work is not mine, but it has
taught me new combinations of colours — new colour-
effects. I am getting ripe for a new start. ..."

I could not help wondering whether the woman had
come to the same point. Madame Piranello was more
secretive, or was it modest reticence ? Still, now and
then she let drop a word which was significant.

On one occasion, I remember, I asked them to lunch
at a Paris restaurant. The fashion of the moment had

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given women a she;i1li-like dress of great simplicity.
The fashion could easily he approximated to the style
of the Primitives, and Madame Piranello had brought
about the combination dexterously. Her figure could
not help but be slight, yet there was a suggestion of
round litheness about it which was very seductive.

" I am so sorry," she said, " that we are late, but the
Master did not like my dress : it does not fall in pointed
Gothic angles. Artists," she added, with her eyes upon
mine, " are slow to admit that their ideals may develop
and girls become women "

There had evidently been a dispute between them on
the subject, for Piranello took her up quickly.

" That's not the point," he exclaimed, " there's an
ideal in everyone, and your ideal is not of the woman-
mother. You confuse all one's ideas of the fitness of
dress, and '

"And the result is perfection," I broke in hastily,
to clear the air : but though Madame Piranello had
remained silent she had not changed her opinion. Her
eyes had grown dark, like violets in water, and the little
nostrils beat quickly ; yet she was wise enough to nitvf
rebuke with silence.

A year or so later I met them at Fontainebleau, and
found that the paths had diverged a great deal further.
While his wife prepared afternoon tea we talked in the
garden. He was now full of Memling, and I he Van
Eycks and Mulsys.

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" You have no idea the great things I found," he
cried ; "I shall go back to Flanders for a year. They
have given me a dozen ideas. I am working at a great
picture now. Adam and Eve leaving the Garden — of
course of their own free will," and he laughed. " Eve
is sorrowing a little at the loss of the accustomed ; but
Adam is delighted with the sovereignty of the larger
world — his eyes aglow with the vision splendid."

" Madame Piranello standing for Eve ? " I guessed.

"No, no," he replied, with a little temper; "women
seek admiration and not artistic effects. It's a great
pity. . . . You see, Claire's older than she was, and
now she wants to show her tiny waist and round figure,
and she's too short for the style, too short-legged. It's
a great pity. . . . Still, perhaps it's for the best :
another ideal has shaped itself in me. She must be
tall and very slight. There must be about her the
adorable awkwardness of childhood : the indecision of
form of the young girl," and he drew the outline of the
figure with his thumb in the air. " Just a hint, perhaps,
of curve in the hips, but not the vase-like roundness of
womanhood — I love the subtle hesitation of line, every
indication of youth, youth with curiosity in the eyes
and eagerness — the possibility but not the suggestion of
passion."

44 Your new ideal will be difficult to find," I remarked.

4tNo, no!" he exclaimed; "one of these days I
am sure to come across it. Life's a treasure-house,
a miraculous treasure-house which holds everything, a

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thousand thousand ideals. Its richness is inconceiv-
able : while the idea is yet vague in the mind. Nature
presents you with its realisation. I'll meet my ideal one
of these days."

" And how about your old men ? " I asked.

44 That was all rather crude, don't you think ? " he
replied carelessly. t4 A mere contrast with my girl
figures : a sort of rebound of passion. I no longer feel
that impulse. I don't want worn, tired heads of old
men, but the perfect figure of the mature man, force
in the yoke-like shoulders, energy in the long, steel
bands of the thigh muscles, and the face of conquering
achievement. I have a perfect model for my Adam,"
he added, 44 Adam who finds a larger freedom in disobedi-
ence and a wider kingdom in revolt ; he must be as
strong as Michelangelo's ideal, but not so tortured :
more easeful, graceful, I think, more like a figure of
Donatello. . . ."

Next spring the "Adam and Eve " of Piranello made
a great sensation in Paris, and shortly afterwards
the gossips were all agog; he had left his wife
without rhyme or reason, it was said, and was
going about with a foreigner, a Danish girl of extra-
ordinary appearance.

I was eager to see her and to know what would be
the result of the separation. Madame Piranello, I was
informed, was living very quietly in a little house on the
borders of the forest of Fontainebleau. She seemed
perfectly happy, Dartier told me.

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" There's a great deal of worldly wisdom in that little
thing," he remarked; " she will fall on her feet. The

son of R , the Minister of Justice, is mad about her.

But she will not marry him. My wife says she really
cares for Piranello in spite of his bad treatment of her,
or perhaps because of it," the genial cynic added with
a smile. " But Piranello's in a bad way," he went on,
" his latest innamorata is a caution : you must see
her. . . ."

Sure enough, I did see her a week afterwards at a
reception in the Latin Quarter, where artists and
editors came together and a few society people, just
to reconcile smartness with talent.

She came into the room a little before Piranello :
she was as tall as he was — with a crown of ashen-fair
hair, parted at the side and brought into a big sweep
across the forehead like a boy's, and knotted tightly
at the nape : long, green eyes, with triangular face and
pointed chin. Her figure seemed to be all angles :
even Piranello could scarcely complain of her round-
ness. She talked French with a harsh, northern accent.
She was not sympathetic to me : there was something
cat-like, cruel in the hard, naked eyes, something of the
snake in that flat, pointed face.

Piranello was as hieratic as ever : but not so self-
poised as he had been. He watched his Dane, too, as
he had never watched his wife. I wondered vaguely
what the upshot would be. He asked me to come to
a private view of some of his pictures in the Rue de Seze.

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I went. The man's art was disquieting. Here and
there a new symbolism showed itself and certain ghostly
effects of peculiar intensity and significance had come
into his work : but the colour-scheme was gloomy and
brutal. The joy of living had disappeared from his
work — passion it appeared had its Nemesis shadow.

Still his art was interesting. There was a head of
Jupiter thrown out over clouds as fine as anything and
modern — for this god had sightless, blind eyes. Near
by was a girl-child's figure, very slight and tall and thin
— too thin, and yet with beauty in its awkwardness :
the face in some strange way suggested a skull : it was
entitled "Une Fille d'Eve," and had an immense success
in Paris. There was something macabre about it, some-
thing preternaturally sinister.

Piranello was no longer as frank as he used to be :
he would not talk about himself and his aims as of old,
perhaps he was not so sure of himself. I felt the solu-
tion of the problem would be with Madame Piranello.

Madame Dartier took me one day to see her at Fon-
tainebleau. There were a couple of men in the room —
one a lame man with a powerful head, and a look on his
face of suffering. He had had a bad fall, I learned, from
horseback — and had injured his spine ; his life was
measured to him in months by the doctors. He had
been an admirer of Madame Piranello for years and was
comparatively content now, because he could see her
without constraint and had induced her to use his motor
car. The other visitor was a young man of a very dif-

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ferent type. He was the R— - of whom Dartier had
spoken ; with his brown hair, gay eyes and short, sturdy
figure he looked like a Norman. His family was very
rich, Madame Dartier told me. He had studied law
in Paris, and had published a volume of poems. He
was a good deal younger than Madame Piranello, and
evidently very much in love with her. Madame
Dartier was certain that Claire would end by marrying
him.

" It would be the best thing in the world for her,"
she said, " she really deserves some happiness after that
wild life with Piranello."

" Does she care for him ? " I asked.

"Of course," said Madame Dartier; " she is five or
six years older than he is, and his devotion would win
any woman in time — especially one who knows life as
well as Claire knows it. Piranello made her see all the
colours of it, I can tell you."

" Why don't they marry ? " I asked. " Surely Piran-
ello will give her a divorce."

" Oh, that's all arranged," said Madame Dartier.
" One good thing about you men is that you seldom
play dog-in-the-manger as women love to do. Claire
will be free in a month or two. But I'm afraid she's
hesitating : you see she had a real passion for Piranello,
and after the fire's burnt we women cover up the
ashes and keep them warm for a long time. ..."

As the afternoon wore away we all went for a walk in
the great forest, the finest in the world, I always think,

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and I had an opportunity to talk quietly to Madame
Piranello.

I told her quite frankly that I had seen Piranello
lately and was interested in his work.

" You were a real friend of his, I know," she re-
marked.

44 1 was, indeed," I said, " and am still, and therefore
very sorry that there is this cloud between you : in
you he has lost his best friend."

She looked at me frankly and her eyes were pathetic.

44 He does not think so," she began : " but perhaps
you are right. At any rate, I'm frightened when I
think of him, frightened and anxious. . . .

44 He has a lot of good in him " — like all women, she
would try to justify her feelings by reason — <4 a lot of
good, and he will come to grief, I'm afraid. Artists all
strain after peculiarities and the quest is dangerous :
the preterhuman is not always the superhuman, oftener
indeed it is the inhuman," she added. . . . 44 That
woman he has got now is a maniac, a ditraqute : one
has only got to look at her to see it, a morphino-maniac

Of worse."

His pictures are wonderful," I said.

Oh yes," she answered, " yes, but not healthy any

more."

Her insight astounded me.

44 You see, he no longer has you for his model,'
said ; 44 you were his ideal."

I had touched the right note at last.

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" Do you know," she said gravely, " I think women
know more about life than men. He and I were made
for each other really, only he does not see it. It is a
pity — you complicated ones always miss the obvious.
He wanted a change, at least his body did, and, mon
dieu ! he's got it. She has a temper like a fiend, you
know, and she'll wear him to a rag, because he's a real
artist, is Nello : his art is his life, and as soon as his art
deteriorates he'll go to the bad."

" Why don't you see him, and tell him all that ? " I
asked. 4 You have clearer eyes than he has and, who
knows, you might save him still." I was drawing the
bow at a venture.

She looked at me questioningly : a half smile stole
across her face : yet her eyes were kind : I thought I
understood. . . .

Three months later Madame Dartier said to me :

" Do you know that Monsieur and Madame Piranello
are together again ? He nearly killed his Dane one
night : he found her morphia drunk with the coachman
and he turned them out into the night : she has dis-
appeared, and a good thing, too. . . . Claire went back
to him at once. She's good, if you like, but foolish —
blind, I mean to her own interest, as all good women are.
R— - would have married her at any moment, and
given her everything. ..."

" Everything, except the one thing needful," I added,
and she smiled and nodded her head with perfect
comprehension.

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When I spoke to Dartier, I found him less
hopeful :

44 1 believe Piranello still sees his Dane : she's like
a taste for absinthe, that woman : if you once get it
you'll die with it or of it," and he laughed. tl If Claire
ever finds him out there will be a final rupture. She's
very proud and won't stand it. What he can see in that
bag of bones I can't imagine, yet she holds him like a
glue-pot."

The following summer Dartier's prediction came true.

Madame Piranello, he told me, had left her husband
finally : she had caught him with the Dane, whom he
would not promise to give up.

"A miserable business altogether," he said.
44 Piranello is going to the devil, though I hear he is
working on a big picture — the Faust story. He has
altered terribly. He takes morphia, too, now ; like
grows to like."

44 And Madame Piranello ? " I questioned.

44 Oh, she's all right," he replied. 44A charming
little woman. My wife had her here for two or three
weeks : she is now living again at the little house near
Fontainebleau : my wife says she will not be un-
married long. There are half-a-dozen men after her.
She is charming, you know, and decorative and wise
to boot."

I acquiesced, but I was a little hurt by his careless
talk. I determined to call on Madame Piranello and
see for myself how the wind was blowing.

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I found just a touch of bitterness in her which
I regretted : it came out when we talked of
Piranello.

" So you tried the great experiment," I began. " It
was very brave of you — very brave and kind."

" A poor farce," she said. " We women cannot give
sight to the blind : God alone can do that."

" It was a mistake, then ? " I asked.

Her eyebrows went up.

" That Danish fiend has got him," she said; " now
we shall see what she makes of him. If she helps him
to great things, she's justified : but she won't. I know
him so well. He's a big child, and needs to be taken
care of. Really I always took great care of him, though
he did not know it, and now . . . she only wants a
companion on the road to hell."

She broke off.

44 She informed me one day that he had made me,
that I owed whatever talent I had to him — la bonne
blague — it's very little one can owe anybody. ..."

I was struck by her wisdom.

44 1 wish you would tell me," I said, 44 about your
early life ! "

44 Oh," she said, 44 there's nothing to tell. I was
brought up in the usual way. Perhaps a little more
strictly than usual — a convent school and a bourgeois
home — all stupid and proper, you know. Of course we
girls talked, and what one did not know the other did,
and if we were kept on the chain, so to speak, our

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thoughts and imaginations wore free and they roamed
about in vagabond fancies. What a gorgeous life that
is of a girl's day-dreams, and nightly imaginings. The
day-dreams all poems of fairy princes and leaders of
men and heroes. And the night fancies, when one can
pull the clothes over one's head and imagine what one
likus, trying to relieve our desires in dreams — the fear
of the pursuer, and the hope that we shall be overtaken
and feel the strong arms about us, and the man's lips
on ours. . . .

44 Then one afternoon Piranello came and took away
my breath. Oh, I admit it — he's so handsome and dark
and strong, so different from anything I had imagined
— so priest-like, interesting. I was all in a flutter. He
took me to his studio with my mother, and I saw his
paintings — and that astonishing Madonna he did with
the curious half -smile of content more enigmatical than
Leonardo's. Of course, I loved him. Love taught me
both what he wanted and what I wanted. . . .

44 Curious, isn't it ? One does not see one's own type
at first. As a girl one's a fool. I would have given
anything for a little Grecian nose — one seeks to hide
one's peculiarities, instead of accentuating them. How
blind one is, and then suddenly one learns from a man
or a painting, or gradually by experience, that it is better
to be oneself, and by being oneself one suddenly becomes
a personage — originality is individuality — anything you
like — even genius. ..."

44 You are very wise," I said. " It is quite true : all
E 65

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you say is quite true ; but how did the difficulty
arise ? "

She sighed a little.

" I hardly know. Piranello wanted to keep me as
I was. But I learned the lesson : I was changing —
love had taught me many things, passion, too, had
taught me. He wished me to be stationary, innocent
and angular of body, with unseeing eyes. But I could
not remain a girl, and he would not realise that it is the
hint of understanding which makes innocence mysteri-
ous and the suggestion of curve which makes the line
seductive. My development was regular : it followed
the ordinary course, while he is a sort of morbid
development."

" Will you never go back to him again ? " I
asked.

44 Oh, never," she replied. " It's final. I did all I
could, more than I ought to have done. It was all
useless, and worse than useless. He has gone under
and wants to go lower. ... A woman must not let
pity master her : it is as dangerous for her as it is for
the man to let passion master him — passion and
compassion are our mortal enemies."

It was two or three years before I saw or heard of
them again, and then I got a message through Dartier
from Piranello, asking me to come and see his pictures.
I went and was shocked by his appearance. He had
shrunk to one half his former size and aged beyond

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recognition. The face that had been rather plump \VM s
all seamed and lined and wrinkled. The skin had fallen
into pouches, the large eyes had grown small : the
black hair all grey, scant on the temples, wispy,
thin.

44 Ah, I have changed," he said : the very voice had
dwindled away.

After talking of this and that he soon got on his
art.

" I want to show you my pictures," he cried, " my
great picture. It is symbolic. You know I used to
talk of life as a treasure-house in which you found
everything. It's not a treasure-house," he said, coming
close to me and speaking in a whisper ; " it's hell," and
his yellow, tired eyes bored into mine. . . .

44 You know the old legend of Faust ? " he went on.
44 He asks the devil for this and for that and the devil
gives him all he asks, and as he gives the devil takes pieces
of his soul in exchange, till he has got it all. . . . Life
gives us this and that of our heart's desire, and takes
our soul in exchange piecemeal, and our friends come to
us and beg us not to give the last bit when we have
already given it," and he grinned savagely, '4 and then
we die because without a soul the body rots, doesn't it ?
The soul's the salt. . . . I've imagined the world-devil
like a king. He gives Faust riches and honour and
beauty — girl after girl, fashioned to his desire, and when
Faust asked for more he said, 4 You have nothing more
to give me in exchange. You are all mine. You have

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been mine for a long time : don't bother me — you silly
fool ! ' "

His voice had grown shrill. I stared at him : there
was insanity in his working face and in the wild sadness
of his bloodshot eyes.

" And your Dane ? " I asked, to shake off the effect
of his bitterness.

" She's dead," he threw out indifferently : " she took
an overdose one night. ..."

I never saw him again, but I heard of him only last
year. It came about in this way : I was invited to
M. Souchard's, you know the man who made a great
fortune in Paris by the lines of steamers. There I

met Claire. She had married R shortly after our

last talk, and had now two children. It was at her
home that I heard of Piranello again from Dartier.

" A funny history," he said. " I always knew that
she would succeed and that Piranello would come to
grief. We are all wise after the event : the unexpected
soon becomes the inevitable."

" What happened ? " I asked.

" She must not guess we are talking about it," he said,
drawing me aside. " I can tell you all there is to be told
in five minutes. Piranello had a little Italian model,
with whom he was in love, and she had a friend as usual,
her amant de COKUT. One night Piranello found them in
the studio together : he had a mania for discoveries,
you may remember. I suppose he thought himself as

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strong as ever, for he attacked the young Italian, who
threw him, and he struck against the great crucifix — you
remember his enamelled crucifix ? The cross, it appears,
tipped over and crushed him — the cross of his own
making. ..."

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

CHAPTER I

THE Comte de Varennes looked like a man of
action, he might have stood for a model of
an officer of light cavalry. A man of medium
height, with light clean figure, his hair was grey but
thick, his moustache grey, too, the forehead high, the
nose slightly beaked, the jaw and chin showed decision.
The expression of the face was a little imperious, but
looked at more closely the hazel eyes were thoughtful,
patient, anything but hard or harsh.

The room he was in told more about him : it was a
library looking out on a bit of park — his favourite
room in the old hotel in the Rue du Bac which he had
inherited. His soldier-like air probably came from the
fact that he had served all through the war of '70 —
such an experience is apt to leave deep marks on a
young man.

He was moving about the room impatiently as if
waiting for someone, and in the intervals of listening
was lost in thought. Suddenly he stopped before the
mantelpiece, and said as if to himself :

" But, after all, what could a young man give her ?
Passion, delight for a few months. No more. And

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

no youth could know her worth, could value her as she
deserves. Experience alone can teach one how rare a
creature like Marie is. I wish I had a portrait of her.
I might have had a photograph — but what a poor thing
a photograph is ! It could give no idea of her grace and
charm. Those are qualities too fine for the sun to see.
And yet he's old enough to have good taste."

At this point in the Count's meditation the door
opened and the old servant entered with :
" M. le Comte. M. le docteur Dupuy ! "
The doctor came into the room with brisk energy,
and the next moment had taken the Count's hand in
both of his. It may be worth while to spend a moment
or two studying this doctor's appearance, for his fame
as scientist and surgeon was already established.
Doctor Dupuy was short and heavily built ; squat, one
might have called him, so long was his body, so short
his legs. His face almost square ; the nose a large pug ;
the forehead's breadth would have appeared massive
had not the thick, grizzled hair grown low down over it :
the eyebrows bushy and dark like the moustache. A
strong face in features and outline, rough hewn, but
redeemed from more than a suspicion of coarseness by
a pair of energetic, searching, grey eyes. The doctor's
manner corresponded to the expression of his eyes :
it was at once energetic and decisive, with a certain
reserve of cool deliberation which inspired confidence.
A strong and able man, the physiognomist would have
said, showing indeed in face and form a peasant origin,

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

yet certain in his day to be successful, as much by his
limitations as by his powers.

After a long look at the Count, Doctor Dupuy dropped
his hand and said, with a smile- of satisfaction :

" That's right. You've sent for the friend and not
for the doctor."

44 No ; you're mistaken," was the Count's answer,
while a shade of melancholy came over his face; " or
rather you're only half right. I shouldn't have dreamed
of taking you from your work had I only wished to see
the friend. In that case I'd have gone to you. No ;
I want to consult with the doctor, too — chiefly with
the doctor, in fact. I want you to examine me " (hesitat-
ingly), "I have a decision to make, an important one,
and I wrant to decide with full knowledge. I'll explain
afterwards, but first you must tell me what this body
of mine is worth — how many years' purchase, I mean."

While the Count was speaking, Doctor Dupuy looked
steadily at his friend, and then replied brusquely, as
from habit :

44 Strip, then, strip and lie down on that sofa. I'll
tell you what you want to know — barring accidents or
unforeseen follies, eh ? "

The examination lasted about ten minutes. While
the Count was dressing Doctor Dupuy walked up and
down the room. Manifestly the problem which occupied
him was not to be solved easily, for of a sudden he
appeared to give it up, and returning threw himself
into a chair opposite the Count and began to speak.

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" You puzzle me. And puzzles are interesting.
Your health's excellent. Ah ! you want the dots on
the i's. Well, physically you are what we call a norm-
ally healthy man of, say, five and fifty or sixty years
of age. Every organ is healthy, normally healthy. I've
known stronger hearts, but there's no sign of organic
weakness in yours. You must have lived almost a
perfect life. Regular habits, I mean, and no excesses.
A ride every morning ; the school of arms every other
day. So I should have thought. You are an example
of what wise living means. That's all I can say.
You may live, you should live, for twenty years yet."

" If you didn't know me, could you have examined
me and taken me for a young man, for a man, say, of
five and thirty or forty ? "

" Oh no ! " replied the doctor decisively. " Youth
makes a difference."

" In what respects ? "

"In so many — in all. For example, at five and
thirty your pulse was not only regular — that it is now
— but resilient, like india-rubber. The heart's action
— but there ! The real difference is this. In youth
one lives, as it were, on the interest of one's vigour ;
at sixty one lives upon one's capital. But what do you
want ? One can't expect to be at sixty as one was at
forty. Summer and autumn differ, but autumn has its
compensations. If there are less enjoyments, there
are, also, fewer sorrows. In short, live as you have
lived and your winter even will be worth having."

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" Yes ; I understand. But suppose I don't mean
to live as I have lived ; suppose, for example, that I
marry."

" Ah ! " and the doctor leaned forward in the chair
as the exclamation broke from his lips. " That would
be a folly. Having everything that life can give, one
doesn't marry at sixty. Why on earth should you wish
to marry ? "

" Why indeed ? " replied the Count, while a faint,
half -melancholy smile came over his face. " Why ?
Suppose, my friend, that I had at last, but for the first
time, met a perfect woman, a girl who is joy incarnate
and tenderness and beauty and life. May I not warm
my hands at the fire ? "

" Burn them, you mean," broke in the doctor roughly.
" No, no, my dear Count, leave your piece of perfection
to some young man ; he'll find out her imperfections
quickly enough, I'll warrant. Women " (and he
shrugged his shoulders), " what are they good for save
to hinder a man's work and at best bear children."

" You didn't hear me out," the Count went on quietly,
as if inattentive to the other's interruption. " Suppose,
further, that this girl of whom I speak were friendless
and poor, without position or prospects, without—

" That's it ! " broke in again the doctor. " I might
have guessed some desperate Quixotism was at the
bottom of it. Yes, I repeat it. You are a modern
Quixote, and yet no one, at first sight, would take you
for the Don. I didn't, and yet you helped me without

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

any reason. It was very Quixotic of you to advance
money to a young doctor in order that he might devote
himself to hospital work. How could you have been
sure that I was worth helping. You scarcely knew me
then. Of course, I'm grateful ; I owe you much,
but "

" You owe me nothing," interrupted the Count
hastily. " You owe everything to your own energy
and ability and to your self-sacrificing devotion to
science. What I did isn't worth talking about."

" Isn't it, though ? I know better — but there ! Have
it as you will. This, my friend, is another matter.
Marriage at your age means a short life and not a
merry one. When one lives on one's capital it doesn't
last long. Why, in God's name, don't you settle some
money on the girl, if you must benefit everyone you
meet ? "

" You know our French laws. I've never saved
money, and were I to alienate any substantial part of
the property my relatives would have the right and the
power to restrain me. No, only by marrying her can I
secure to her the position she ought to have. Besides,
I love her. But what was that you said ? Would
marriage shorten my life so much ? I hadn't thought
of that, and yet, of course, I knew it. You see," and
again the melancholy smile came over his face, " I don't
feel old : I feel much as I did at thirty, only the emotions
are even stronger now than they were then. Strange,
isn't it ? Would marriage shorten my life very much ? "

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

For a minute or so the doctor didn't answer.
Evidently it cost his obstinacy an effort, before lie could
enter upon the new line of argument. Then he said :

" Of course, it all depends upon the woman. If
she had sense, as you say. Could one speak to her —
explain the position to her ? A demi mot, of course, I
mean. It might be all right. There's no reason why
even a young woman shouldn't be careful of your health.
They're strange creatures. When they take it into
their heads they can show devotion, self-sacrifice."

41 Ah, don't go on!" broke in the Count. "I
wouldn't mar her life by turning her into a garde-malade.
She must have only good memories of me. I couldn't

bear to think that in the years to come she should

It doesn't do to think of that. No ; if I'm to be her
husband I must be a husband to her, not a crazy invalid
taking from her the best part of her youth. How long
should I live ? That's the question."

" A question impossible to answer," replied the
doctor gravely. " With your views and her youth, not
very long I'm afraid — perhaps a year or two. perhaps
double or half that time. What is your age exactly ?
The wrong side of sixty ? Hum ! The heart's not
strong, you might have syncope at any moment or
perhaps a stroke."

" Good God ! Why not tell me the worst at once ?
That's worse than death — a thousand times worse.
But there would be premonitory symptoms, wouldn't
there ? I should have some warning ? "

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" Generally there are. In your case, I should say
certainly, for you're strong and you've been accustomed
to good health."

"And those symptoms ? Tell me of them."

" They're too numerous to count. The symptoms
of exhaustion differ as men differ, ad infinitum. You
insist ? Well, you might be seized with a strange, un-
controllable twitching of a muscle or limb, or an eyelid
might droop in spite of your will power, but I might talk
on for hours and yet fail to enumerate the precise
symptom which might show itself in your case. Think
the matter over, my friend, and decide against suicide.
That's worse than Quixotism ; it's insanity. Why
should you change fifteen years of life for a few months
of it ? "

" You've given me pause. Paralysis I hadn't
reckoned with ; but, after all, if there are premonitory
symptoms, Death's all I have to fear. You remember
what Cato said : 4 No man should complain of life when
there are so many doors by which he can leave it.' A
hypodermic injection of morphia, and the matter's
settled. You could manage everything for me, couldn't
you ? "

" No, no ! I wouldn't if I could. Ask someone
else to do that, if you must do it. I shall have regrets
enough, as it is."

" You mistake me. I mean that, as you are my
doctor, you would certify to the cause of death, and so
avoid giving her needless grief. Weakness of the heart,

IN THE VALE OF TEAKS

eh ? You would do so much for me, wouldn't you ? "
And the Count stretched out his hand toward his friend
as he spoke.

The doctor did not seem to have noticed the gesture.
For some little time he sat with bowed head, thinking ;
then suddenly he looked up, and began impressively :

" You know, don't you, that there are physical con-
ditions at sixty or thereabouts, as there are at fifteen,
which are apt to affect one's judgment ? Have you
discounted them ? "

14 You don't read me rightly," the Count replied, with
a certain restraint in voice and manner. "Till now your
arguments have all been of weight, but they only apply
to me, and I'm old enough to know what I'm doing.
Still, you've made everything clear to me, and that's
what I wanted. I'm grateful to you for your frank-
ness, and your interest in me. You know that." As
the Count finished speaking he rose, and again held out
his hand, which the doctor, rising, too, now took and
held, as he replied gravely :

" P'rhaps I'm mistaken. No doubt you've thought
over the matter from all sides, and it isn't for me to say
that you're in the wrong. Yet consider — and this is
my last word of remonstrance — one's capital of vigour
is soon exhausted, and after a man's forty Nature's
bank gives him no credit, not a day, and has no pity for
the bankrupt. But if against all reason you do marry,
send for me frequently. I shall do better than my
best for you."

F 81

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" Thanks ! I know you will."

As the doctor left the room the Count sank down into
his arm-chair, as if — now the antagonism of argument
was over — he had been brought to perplexity by the
doctor's reasoning. But human passion, like every-
thing else, is subject to law. And just as the water
that extinguishes a small fire only serves as fuel to a
large one, so the discouragement which annihilates an
inclination affords aliment to an intense affection.

" Death in a year, or less. That makes me catch
breath ! Yet my resolve should stand. If I thought
before that five years might be better than ten for
Marie, it's plain that a year or less might be better still
for her, and nothing else matters. I must hurry, too,
or my account at the bank will diminish.

" Dupuy didn't even affect to doubt that the marriage
would be a good thing for her, and that's the main point.
4 A young man would soon find out her imperfections,'
he said. Has she any ? Of course she has ; everyone
has some faults, and yet I don't see hers. I'm fault-
blind, it seems, when Marie comes in question. It's
best so. And I must lose no time. Even now, at any
moment, I might die, and then what would become of
her ? Oh yes ! for her it must be best. I know I can
make her happy.

" As for me, I'm sure 'twill be well with me. I know
myself by this time, and know in what direction I shall
change, if, indeed, I've time to change at all.

" For these last fifteen years I've lived harmlessly

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

for my tastes, and what have I got out of life — what
has it been worth to me ? Pleasures of the senses which
pass away and leave no trace, no memory, nothing en-
during ; pleasures of the intellect which scarcely equal
in keenness those of hunting or shooting. There remain
but one's joy in beauty and life, and the heart-pleasures,
which alone are permanent, and yield us fragrant
memories. But how rare they are. I shall have more
heart -joy in a week with Marie than I've had hitherto
in all my life. Of course, I'd rather have years of it — an
eternity of it ; but, as that's impossible, I should be
mad to refuse what life still offers. For me the choice
is easy, though I don't like to think of the stroke — and
the end. I'm not afraid ? No ; but I don't like to
think of it. Death ! Ah ! that means loss of Marie.
Strange— at the bare thought of leaving her my heart
contracted violently, as if gripped by pain, intense
physical pain. Body and soul at one in this. Never
to see again the shy, appealing eyes, to miss the laughter
of the mind, the sympathy of heart-companionship.
It's hard to face that outer darkness. And yet, in any
case, one of us would have had to go first. It's better
for me to go first. Oh yes. She has youth to console
her, and I — I have age to reconcile me to the inevitable.
What a pitiful tragedy life is ! Had I met her twenty
years ago, or could I but believe that after deatli
we'd meet again in some new life. Folly ! Heaven
and hell are but the shadows thrown across the
future by man's greed and fear : death means oblivion.

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

A few hours sooner or later — what can that
matter ? "

About four o'clock on the same day the Count drove
across the Seine to call upon Madame de Riverolles, a
cousin of his mother by marriage, whom he had persuaded
some months before to take charge of his protegee, Made-
moiselle Lafargue. In person Madame de Riverolles was
large and stout. Her bodily plainness had always been
an affliction to her : but she never tried to disguise it ;
she wore her greying hair quite boldly, and if she tried
to make the most of it where it was scant who shall blame
her for doing what we all do even in more important
matters ? Her eyes, she said, were like gooseberries ;
and she could never forgive her cheeks for glowing like
brick-dust. She loved all distinctions, and to be her-
self common-looking, a fat bourgeoise, was a crucial
torture to her. Her sound sense and kind heart re-
deemed her to her friends and she was very proud of her
judgment and insight, but whenever she thought of her
appearance she was humbled and distressed beyond
measure. In opinion this woman belonged to the nine-
teenth century ; she was sceptical always, and at times
cynical, as one who sees things as they are, but her
character was a product of the past. She was proud of
her birth and position, believed in manners and breeding,
and carefully attended all the offices of the Church.
" Without religion," she used to say, " the lower orders
can't be governed." Madame de Riverolles treated

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

passion as a pastime, and was rarely roused to indigna-
tion save by hypocrisy. She was, moreover, kindly and
generous to a fault, and, like many another childless
widow, loved young people. When M. de Varennes told
her that the daughter of his sister's governess had been
left destitute, that he had caused Mademoiselle Lafargue
to be educated at the Sacre Cceur, and that she now
needed some lady to open house and heart to her,
Madame de Riverolles had made no difficulties. The
name Lafargue, it is true, was offensive to her, but this
obstacle disappeared as she learned to know Mademoiselle
Marie ; in fact, she soon came to love the girl, and
showed her affection by striving to instil into her young
companion all her prejudices, while carefully concealing
her cynical views of life. It would be hard to say
whether the girl loved the elder woman more for her
warmth of heart, or for the unconscious, educational
strategy which betrayed her innate goodness ; and so
the two lived together happily enough.

When the Count told Madame de Riverolles that he
didn't wish her to send for Mademoiselle Marie, because
he wanted to consult with her alone, to ask her advice,
the lady looked at him with twinkling eyes, and replied :

"Because you want to be confirmed in your o\\n
opinion — eh ? "

" No," answered the Count, with a smile, " but be-
cause I want you to do something for me, if your opinion
agrees with mine. Otherwise, I suppose you'd have to
refuse me the favour I intend to ask of you."

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" What peculiar beings you men are, and how you
all resemble one another ; long exordiums to serious
business. But what is it ? You excite my curiosity."

" I want to marry Marie. Wait ! — and hear me out.
You know her and her position. Would it be a good
thing for her ? That's the question I want you to
answer. I know it'll be well with me if she consents
to be my wife."

" You want to marry Marie ? Wonders will never
cease ! Well, I did think you were unselfish, and

now But, you're mad ! What would the world

say ? There ! there ! you don't care what it says.
Of course not ; but you ought to care. Your name
and position require you to set an example. You
should have married in your own station long ago.
My dear Raoul, seriously — you're sixty if you're a
day; almost as old as I am, and I'm old enough to
be Marie's grandmother."

" Then you would advise Marie not to marry me ? "

" Now do I look like a fool ? Of course 'twould be a
great thing for Mademoiselle Lafargue to become the
Countess of Varenne. No one could deny that. Every
woman loves a title. The girl's head will be turned, I'm
afraid, though it's firmly fixed on her little shoulders.
No, my dear Raoul, it's you I'm thinking of. And yet
the girl would make a good wife. — I suppose it's the
disproportion I dislike, disproportion of position, of age,
of everything. And so you really love Marie ? You ?
Well, well — but there ! I never could understand what

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

your mother saw in your father, and you've her nature.
So you're in love at last ? Really in love — you ? Well,
the girl ought to be very proud. Does she know of it ?
Have you said anything to her ? "

" No : I wouldn't speak till I had talked the matter
over with you. But now, as you think 'twould be to
her advantage, I'll ask Marie at once. You'll act as
mother to her, won't you, if she consents ? "

" Ah, you go too fast. I'm not at all sure that I can
support you in your folly, for 'tis a folly, you know it
is. And yet "

44 My dear aunt, be your own kind self, and consent
at once. Think. In that way the name Lafargue will
disappear. Besides, I've not much time left to be happy
in, and Marie will make the sunset of life beautiful to
me. You love her, you know you do. Everyone who
knows her must love her. Why shouldn't I ? I'm
old. Does that prove I've neither eyes nor feelings.
The heart, aunt, is always young."

14 That's true enough," replied Madame de Riverolles ;

^that's the obverse of the proverb, 'There's no fool

But there ! — have your way — have your way ! Do
you want me to speak to the girl ? No. You wish me
to send her to you — eh ? — and take myself off. Well,

well, it's all very irregular, but p'r'aps But I shall

miss the girl — miss her greatly. You didn't think of
that, I'll be bound. But if it's for your good, Raoul, I
shall be content."

As the old lady rose with a sigh to leave the room,

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

the Count took her hand and kissed it gravely. The
respectful gratitude and sympathy of his manner con-
summated his victory. For two or three minutes he
waited, alone, in the room, not a little nervous and
excited, in spite of his conviction that his fate was in
good hands. Then the door opened, and a girl came
toward him. Marie Lafargue seemed surprisingly
young. She was somewhat above the average height,
and slight ; her dress tended to exaggerate this first
impression by its severe simplicity ; it seemed fashioned
to form lines rather than curves. She had a trick, too,
of folding her hands now in front of her, now behind
her back, and of carrying her head a little on one side,
which deepened the impression of her nun-like youthful-
ness. But a second look revealed a flexible roundness
of figure that betokened health, and her walk had the
grace which is the result of perfect proportion. Her
face might have served as a model for the Madonna of
some early Flemish master. The brown hair was drawn
simply back from the forehead behind the ears in two
waves and gathered into a heavy knot on her neck.
The features were good — the nose daintily cut, the eye-
brows regular in dark curve, the chin small and round,
yet, perhaps from the way in which she wore her hair,
the oval of her face seemed rather long. The mouth,
perhaps, was the only feature which defied fault-finding ;
perfectly chiselled, it was at once sensitive and rich with
healthy life, and so served to redress the balance between
soul and body which the light hazel eyes, and the colour-

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

1« ss oval face, might else have disturbed. Altogether
her face but increased the impression made by her nun-
like appearance and strange simplicity of manner. The
healthful harmony which comes alone from purity of
race seemed heightened in this girl to a spiritual charm
of mind and character. As she came towards him the
Count took her hand and led her to a chair. Then,
and not till then, he noticed that her cheeks were flushed,
and her eyes shy as with some mystery of emotion.
She seemed slightly embarrassed, and yet was the first
to speak.

41 Madame de Riverolles," she said, in a low voice,
44 told me you wanted to talk to me." And here there
was a question in the momentary uplifting of her eyes to
the Count's face, but a natural gaiety seemed to strive
for freedom in the next words : 4t And she was so
solemn-serious in manner I was quite frightened.
She didn't say M. le Comte de Varenne, as she always
does, but — called you by your Christian name, and
altogether impressed me hugely," and the girl laughed
a little mischievously, 4t as she does when on the way to
Mass she sets an example of conduct. But she's a dear,
and I love her, and it's very naughty of me to imitate
her, for she's too good to me — the dear heart."

The girl, it seemed, would have run on nervously,
hadn't the Count interrupted her with slow grave
words.

44 Yes, Mademoiselle Marie, I want to talk to you —
not to the girl, charming as she is, but to the woman

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

you really are. I want you at your wisest, for you will
have to decide something very important to you — and
to me." As he paused, the girl looked full at him
with open-eyed, sympathetic earnestness ; but she only
moved her head gravely by way of answer, and clasped
her hands on her lap. Evidently he had exorcised her
slight embarrassment.

" I am old ; may, in fact, die at any time, and must
die within a few years." The girl moved restlessly,
clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. " You
are young, and I want to make life easy to you,

Mademoiselle Marie, and — and But first of all I

want you to know that however you may answer me, I
shall always be the same to you. We old people don't
change our likes or dislikes easily.

" You understand, don't you, that I shall not alter
to you ? " The girl nodded her bowed head. " Now,
now — the fact is, Marie, I care for you, and if it wouldn't
spoil your life, I'd ask you to make me happy by marry-
ing me. Don't answer yet," the Count went on rapidly,
" I know you like me and feel grateful to me. That's
not what I mean. If you don't feel that you can love
me — and why should youth love grey hairs ? — you
ought to tell me so frankly, otherwise we should be
doing each other wrong, and neither of us wishes that.
Now, Marie, will you answer ? "

A moment's pause, and then the girl lifted to him
a face blanched by intense emotion and great dark
eyes swimming in unshed tears. Simply, with a child-
go

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

like gesture, she put both her hands in his, but as he
clasped them her head drooped shyly. A moment
later, when the Count had drawn her to him and sought
to lift her face from his breast, he found the tears
lulling heavily.

" Crying, Marie ? " he asked, in a tone half of fear
and half of reproach.

After a minute's pause came the low answer, " Yes,"
and then, "for joy and happiness."

The last words were hardly to be heard, but the
Count was content. For some time they sat together
thus, while the silence, tremulous with happiness, seemed
to enfold them in the solitude of love. Then, with a
deep sigh, he said :

" How I wish I were thirty years younger." The
girl's hand moved upwards and closed his lips, then
dropped again, nestling softly into his clasp. A few
minutes later he began again.

41 I'm afraid I'm wrong. I may be spoiling your life.
No ! no ! " he went on, rising in his excitement ; " you
must hear me out. I love you, yes, but so would any-
one who knew you, and who had either head or heart.
To know you and not to love you seems to me impossible.
But I'm old, Marie. I'm — over sixty. Think of it."
The girl rose as he spoke, and lifted her eyes to his
reproachfully. "And I wanted to make you happy,
to do everything you wished ; and it has come to this,
that I take your youth and affection to warm and
brighten my age. It seems wrong — selfish, intensely

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

selfish — of me, and yet I don't wish to be selfish, at any
rate where you're concerned."

The girl turned as he spoke, and moved away from
him with hands clasped in front of her. Quickly the
Count followed, and, taking her hands, looked at her
as if asking for pardon. For a moment they stood so ;
then the girl spoke gravely.

" I cannot listen to you when you speak like that ;
you make me miserable. It seems as if you didn't
trust me. Yet you may. You're not old — at least, you
don't seem old to me ever, only wise and kind. Please
don't speak again like that." She bowed her head
shyly as she paused. " You must know I'd rather be
with you, at your side, than anywhere on earth." Then
as he took her again in his arms she went on as if trying
to conquer her emotion : " It's a shame, sir. to humble
me with your feigned humility when I'm so glad that I
feel afraid."

The Count lifted the hot face and kissed his bride on
the lips.

CHAPTER II. — MARRIED LIFE

ABOUT a month later, a week or so after her marriage,
the Countess of Varenne was moving about the morning-
room, which looked out on the Pare Monseau. Marriage
had increased her beauty. In some indefinable way the
severe simplicity which had been a characteristic of the
girl had now been modified, was evidently on the way

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

to become rare distinction. Her carriage no longer
suggested girlish timidity ; the flush of her cheeks
showed richer health, and there was an umvpressed
joyousness in her eyes, in the tone of her voice, in her
very movements, which had the charm of sunshine.
While arranging some roses on the table she asked the
old servant, Pierre, whether he had told the Count that
the breakfast \\iis served.

" Yes, Madame la Comtcsse, and M. le Comte said
he'd be down in a moment. He usedn't to be late like
this," went on Pierre, in an aggrieved tone. " He used
to ride every morning from nine till eleven. You see,
Madame la Comtesse, habits are everything, and when
one grows old one oughtn't to change them."

The Countess drew herself up. " You must not
speak of the Count in that way. He is not old, and
if " Here she paused, blushing with annoyance.

" Madame la Comtesse will pardon me, but I have
been with M. le Comte many years, oh ! many years,
and the riding always did him good. It was to him
what a little cordial is to me in the morning ; it cheers
one up and does the stomach good, and if I went
without my little glass I'd miss it all day. And so
it is with M. le Comte, I'm sure. Habit is everything.
Good habits make a good man, bad habits a bad man.
Life's all habit."

At this moment the Count entered the room, and
Pierre busied himself with his duties while his master
crossed over, and, taking his wife's hand, led her to

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

her chair. A stranger would have noticed the absence
of conventional greetings. Either the husband and
wife had met already that morning, or else — which
seemed more likely — de Varenne was one of those rare
persons who feel instinctively that an habitual kiss is
anything but a token of affection, and that every caress
— especially between lovers — should be significant.
Life is an art with some men.

" Pierre tells me," began the Countess, " that you
always used to go out riding in the morning. I'd like
to learn to ride, and then we could go out together.
Will you teach me ? Is it very difficult ? "

" No," he replied, smiling; " it's easy enough, and I
shall be delighted to teach you. We can begin as soon
as you get a habit. I've a horse that will carry you
splendidly. I wonder I didn't think of that before;
but," he went on, speaking without emphasis as if he
didn't wish to be overheard even by Pierre, " I neves
wish to think of anything that doesn't link me to you."

His wife thanked him with a look. And then, with
the sunlight falling in broad waves through the windows,
they talked of habits and habit -makers, while their
hearts expanded in the delightful consciousness of new-
born intimacy, till at last the breakfast was finished and
the servants had left the room. Half -an-hour may have
passed in love babble before he sat down to the perusal
of some deeds that required his attention, while his
wife settled herself near him, and began a letter. He
had soon finished his business, but either out of a wish

IN Till; VALE OF TEARS

not to disturb her, or because he was content with her
mere presence, he sat for some minutes in silence.
Then he said :

" Who's the happy person, dear ? Your letter seems
a long one."

The girl-wife blushed. " Only Adele — you know,
my great friend at the convent."

" And what do you find to say to her ? "

" Lots of things ! " she replied, turning to her
husband ; but the carelessness of tone was only as-
sumed, for she flushed again as she spoke.

" Mayn't I know the 4 lots of things ' ? " he asked
teasingly.

Marie bit her penholder. And then, throwing it
down on the desk, she rose from her seat and putting
her arms round her husband's neck laid her head on
his shoulder, while she replied :

" A lot of things which I can't tell you yet, but will
perhaps some day. How fascinating you are, sir, and
how clever and good; lots of things that make me
blush to say, and yet I love to write them. Do you
see ? Just then I was telling her how happy I was,
and — and how I love you, my husband ! How I wish
I were worthy of you." And the great eyes filled with
tears.

Ih way of answer he folded her closely in his
anus.

" Am I not foolish ? " she laughed, " to cry for pure
happiness ? No one ever heard of such folly."

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" You are foolish, indeed, to talk so of yourself. My
joy ! Worthy of me indeed ! " And the man sighed
bitterly.

" No, no ! " the girl replied, placing her hand on his
lips ; "you mustn't speak like that." And then, with
a quick change of tone, she added : " I'd like to ask you
something. May I ? It's this. When did you begin
to care for me, and why ? I've often wished to ask
you that. I often wonder why ? "

" You do, do you ! That's because you can't see
yourself as you are, my dainty sweetheart ! Why,
indeed ? First of all, you're very beautiful. Ah,
you'll know how beautiful soon enough. But ' beauti-
ful ' doesn't express you completely. You have a

tantalising charm, even of person, which You

mustn't interrupt me. You're like an orchid — delicate
soft leaves with a glory of rich colours shining through.
And then you have so many charms of nature. You
must hear me out. Joyous innocence as of a girl, un-
known depths of womanly feeling, and a play of mind
which to me is always delightful. You're like a golden
cord woven of innumerable fine strands that cannot be
taken apart — a cord for all hearts. All men who know
life well would love you, it seems to me, if they had the
chance."

" Don't go on or I shall grow conceited, though it's
sweet to hear from your lips. But tell me now when
you began to care for me," and she nestled closer to
him as she spoke.

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

"A moment ! I think the first time was a year before
you left the school. The Mother Superior had been
praising you, telling me of the extraordinary rapidity
and surety with which you learned everything, and how
everyone loved you. She sent for you and you came in.
You seemed very young. I told you what she had said
and how it pleased me, and went away. But afterwards
I thought of it all, and it seemed preposterous — a shame
— to think of you as a governess. I saw you again and
again — and soon I found myself fettered. Then I
spoke to Madame de Riverolles, and so it all came
about." The Count paused.

44 Ah ! And you didn't know why I had worked so
hard ? How blind men are ! Now listen and be
ashamed. Six years ago, when you took me to the con-
vent, and spoke about my dear, dear mother, I began
to think of you and to care for you. Then in the first
year you came and said you were glad I had done so
well, and I worked harder than ever — except when I
was thinking of you. So I was years ahead of you, sir.
Years, my dear one ! loiter I thought everyone must
see how I loved you, and that made me ashamed. And
I tried to hide it from everyone and not to think of you.
But 'twas no use ! Murder, they say, will out, and so
will love. Every day, at last, at Madame de Riverolles',
I was afraid you'd speak, and yet I wanted you to.
And when you didn't I grew sad. I knew then I wasn't
worthy of you. She's very proud of you, you know, and
that humbled me. And just when I thought you never
G 97

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

were going to speak you did — ah ! what I owe you !
I thought I should die of gladness. And now, now
you've taught me what happiness, what love, what bliss
means, so that I'm frightened sometimes, and pray I
may have a fever or something, to make up a little for
my overjoy."

The Count sat and listened to the confession quietly,
but the last words of it made his lip quiver and filled
his eyes. For a long time the pair sat together with
hands entwined, and their hearts filled with a tumult
of emotions that forbade speech.

A month later the Count and Marie were together
in the same room early one afternoon, when the girl-
wife began with an air of perplexity :

" Do you know, Raoul, this is the only room in the
house where I don't find you. Will you tell me the
reason ? It seems cold to me and hard. And yet I
like the idea of clothing a whole room in planed cedar
panelled with pine ; but I'm not sure that I care for
the bronzes of Barye, or the landscapes of Ruysdael,
and I hate those things of Rops. Am I right or wrong,
maestro mio ? "

" Right as always," and the Count smiled as he
spoke. " We'll change the room's character. It has
served its purpose. We can take the Corots from my
study and put 4 those things of Rops ' there, and the
Baryes and Ruysdaels can go into our little gallery."

" But what was its purpose ? "

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

"Ah ! inquisitive one." And Ihr Count paused for
a moment, as if he doubted the wisdom of an explana-
tion, but the doubt was conquered by his wife slipping
her arm through his.

" Don't you see the connection between the bronzes
and the landscapes ? you do, or you would not have
coupled them together. You don't? Well, no one
ever moulded animals with such severity of truth, such
comprehension of the individual character of each brute
as poor Barye. He used to bring them up here himself,
and pray me to buy them, for his poverty was extreme.
Poor fellow ! The artist who represents life as it is, is
never likely to be popular, no matter how great his
gifts."

" But I've read somewhere that it's the highest
function of the artist to represent the noblest men and
women, and I seem to feel that's true."

"You dear! It sounds well, but I don't think it's
true. It seems to me the extraordinary always sur-
vives. L'Avare lives, and Phedre — and they weren't
very noble — and Manon Lescaut and Tartuffe. Art
knows nothing of morality, and draws no distinction
between what is high and what is low ; it can make
the sinner as interesting as the saint, and ugliness as
fascinating as beauty. Neither Rembrandt nor Velas-
quez painted Venus or Adonis or the Garden of Eden
and yet they're perhaps the very greatest of painters.
No, no. The realm of art is as wide as the world. It
enriches us by showing us other views of life than those

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

we affect. Believe me, Barye was an artist, and a
great one. Look at the intense vitality and vigour of
that lion, and the magnificent action and rendering
which give expression to pure force. Isn't it splendid ? "

" Yes ; but it's very cruel. See the poor hind crushed
under the great brute ; its poor legs broken ; its throat
torn asunder. Oh, it's terrible ! I can't bear to look
at it."

" Strength is often cruel, life's often terrible. And
we need to be reminded of those sides of life which
we don't like, but which exist. Barye's sincerity, his
courage, his complete mastery of his material, the great
artist in him, acts on me like a tonic. Now you see,
don't you, why I put the Ruysdaels here as well ? For
Ruysdael is sincere and stern and melancholy ; a great
master within his limits, and he never tried to go outside
them. Felicien Rops, too, is an artist, though so curi-
ously sensuous, so intensely modern, that I despair of
changing your opinion of him at once. But, dear, you
should remember that in the world of art there are
many mansions, and exclusiveness of taste is a sign of
-—youth."

" I'll try to remember. But why do great artists
represent things that are loathsome or terrible ? Why
aren't they content to show us what is beautiful and
sweet and good ? "

" The greatest do both. Dante gives us the incident
of Paolo and Francesca, the sunshine of love quivering
in a shaft of light athwart the storm-clouds of hell, but

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

he also tells us of Ugolino, and pictures the father eating
the child, and gives us his awful cry —

'Perche . . .'

The lesser men do what they can, depict that side of life
which has moved them, but it sometimes happens that
the smaller man is the greater artist. Do you see what
I mean ? "

44 I think I do, but it's a little hard, isn't it— the
greater's the lesser — like geometry a little ? " And
she looked up with puckered brows, as if puzzled, but
her eyes were dancing.

" Incorrigible sweetheart," and the Count laughed.
" Now you're making fun of me, but I know when you
do that you understand. So it's all right. No ? Well,
pet, it all comes to this, that I often think Barye as
great an artist as Michelangelo, because he rendered
perfectly what he saw, though the Florentine covered a
larger field and was, therefore, the greater man."

44 You revere nee all greatness, don't you ? " and she
put her head on one side, saucily, t4 for the same reason,
perhaps, that you like the Baryes as a sort of moral
cold bath," she added mischievously.

fc* We can't deny reverence to greatness," he replied,
as if he hadn't felt the shaft, " any more than we can
withhold admiration from beauty, can we ? "

44 You exasperating man ! You don't even know
when I tease. But of course we can. Greatness of
intellect does not appeal to me like greatness of
character or goodness. Intellect is often cruel and

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

cold. Great artists aren't always great men, are
they ? "

" They must have great qualities both of character
and intellect. Besides, you can measure them in their
works. No one ever created a hero unless he had a
hero's soul, and he who would depict a saint must be
a Fra Angelico. Our ideals are related to our spirit's
greatness as shadow to the body's size."

" But the artist needn't have a good heart or nature,
need he ? "

" No, but in so far he'll be deficient as an artist.
Yet it seems very womanly and sweet of you to prefer
goodness of heart to anything else. I sometimes think
that without women the moral feelings of pity, gentle-
ness, forgiveness, of love in fine, would vanish from the
world and leave us men wild beasts with sharper than
Nature's weapons."

The girl shook her head gravely.

" I'm sure you're as forgiving and gentle and loving
as any woman, without a woman's pettiness. Oh yes,
' pettiness ' ! — I hate myself for it, often. And now I'll
confess to you. When you talk you show me things I
never saw before. You make life larger to me, and I
love to listen to you. But after a while it seems to me
as if you were always right and I appallingly ignorant,
and my petty vanity revolts and I say mean things like
those I have just said, and then I'm ashamed of myself.
So I determined when you spoke so sweetly about
women to punish myself by telling you how small I am.

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

My conqueror, if you knew how I reverence you ! But
sometimes, when you speak against yourself, and talk
as if your lift were worthless, I must say cutting things,
because it hurts me even to hear you say you're not
perfect, for you are, my lord ! "

" Don't talk so, child ! You should see me as I am,
an old dilettante, who has lived with thoughts and works
of art in a study, till the world seems too hard and coarse
for him — but he has never done anything. He has
taken everything from men and given his fellows nothing
in return. There's no greatness in such a life. You've
taught me that truth — unconsciously. To be born rich
is a great misfortune. One is likely to be always in
debt. I owe the world much, very much — most of all
this, that it has given you to me, rilling my life with
light.

" Think of me as an old book- worm, and above all
guard intact your own spirit and don't degrade your
ideals to my level. You're right to revolt. Your choice
of a love-word for me — 'conqueror,' shows the true
spirit in you, but the word is shocking when applied to
me. One who- has conquered poverty and ignorance,
who has worked in the world and yet won to wide
sympathies, growing kindlier by life's betrayals, gentler
from consciousness of strength, and nobler through
remorse — one whose soul is :i flame which glows and rises
in the wind that threatens it ; he is a conqueror and
merits admiration. I ? What do I deserve who fled the
field ? Had T met you earlier, with the knowledge I now

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

have of your worth, 1 might have done something, been
someone. As it is, I'm impotent and almost worthless
— a tree bearing no fruit. And when out of the fulness
of your love you praise me I'm consumed with shame.
But, at least, I won't let you deceive yourself about me
— try to see me as I am, for that's a duty you owe
yourself. Then — then your love will soon find a
measure." And he sighed heavily.

" The more I know you the better I love you. If
you had lived more in the world you'd have found some-
one better than I, and so I'm glad you're just as you are.
The taper in a room gives a steadier light than your
' flame ' — perhaps " (archly) " I prefer the taper to a
roaring fire and the tree which gives me shade to one
laden down with fruit ? "

" Perhaps," repeated the Count to himself as he
smiled faintly in response to her challenge. Then
unconsciously he repeated the word aloud, "Perhaps.
But," he went on quickly, as her eyes widened with
remorse, " now we've got into metaphor, it's better
to stop, or we shall get confused and say what we don't

mean."

" But, you know I love you ? — just as you
are."

" I know it well, sweetheart ! Know more than you
think ! "

" What, more ? What do you mean ? "

" That I'm more than content," he answered, with a
smile.

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

CHAPTER HI. — Tffipavavri ira.$€iv

" You see, doctor, I've come to you in winter as you
came to me in summer. What wretched weather we're
having. I seem to feel the cold more than I ever did.
Yes, I'm here as a patient, with the same tiresome
question. You know, to me you're the manager of the
bank, and I want you to tell me how my account stands
with Messrs Life & Co., the bankers."

The words and tone of the Count of Varennes' greet-
ing were evidently meant to show unconcern, but there
was a feverish anxiety underlying his seeming careless-
ness which did not escape Doctor Dupuy. The keen
grey eyes of the doctor had observed, too, slight but
significant changes in the Count's appearance. The hair
had thinned, the face had lost something of its healthy
brown hue, and under the eyes the skin was purple.
After a careful examination of his patient the doctor
asked thoughtfully :

" And your symptoms ? Have you noticed nothing
but the cold — felt no other signs of weakness ? "

" Each day I discover something new, but whether
important or not, you must say. For instance, a month
or six weeks ago I stepped from the footpath into tin-
street without looking, and that gave me a shock."

" Why didn't you come to me then ? "

" Laissez aller, I suppose. Now, I've to take care
when getting up from a chair or sitting down in one—

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

any careless movement shakes me. I'm growing stiff.
I get sleepy, too, after a ride or after meals ; yet I eat
nothing — I've no appetite. I always feel tired now.
The candle's burning down in the socket, isn't it ? "

" Hum ! Your pulse is thin and irregular ; the
nervous system slightly overstrained. Your heart, you
see, was never very strong."

" I knew it ! But I want you to tell me what part
of my capital I've spent. How much still remains
to me ? "

" Hum ! You want the truth ? Well, I should say
you've lived ten years in these last few months. The
capital has shrunk more than one- half."

" Whew ! That's worse than I feared. To go back
now to the old habits of my life would do no good. It's
too late ? "

" Oh no, far from it ; but you can never expect to
be the same man again you were six months ago.
Youth can go back and begin afresh, but age — hardly."

The Count drew a long breath. " That's what I
wanted to know. Now, one more question, which I
ought to have put to you before. Suppose my wife has
a child, will it be healthy, or will the weakness of my
age infect it ? "

" I can't answer that. Opinions differ on the point.
Mine is, that a child born of youthful parents has a spring
of vigour, a recuperative power in it, which the children
of older people haven't got, but the offspring of a father
past his prime and a young mother is often strong and

106

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

healthy. I should say your child would be all right
But have you any hopes ? "

" I think so. Now, I want to ask a favour of you.
You're always here in the morning, aren't you ? "

" Always. I never go out till one o'clock."

" Well, should anything happen to me, should my
weak heart, for instance, fail, as you know it may, Pierre,
my old servant, will come here for you, and I want you
to promise me to go with him and break the news to my
wife. There's no one else in the world I could ask who
would do it so well. You can speak to her of her unborn
child, her love for it will help her in the sorrow, and
enable her to face the future. Time and her youth
must do the rest."

" Of course, you know I'll do anything for you that
I can, but you mustn't talk like that, nor let your
thoughts (hvrll on such things. You have five or six
years of life still in you, barring accidents, and your
wile, I imagine, wouldn't thank you for throwing them
away."

" You think so, do you ? Well, you are nearer right
than you know. Marie" (and a short laugh ended in
a sigh) — " Marie " (and his voice lingered now on the
word with inexpressible tenderness)—" is Marie. Had
I but known that one could be so good ! But how could
I know that ? Yet had I but known six months ago !
That's the bitterness of it. The thought's enough to
drive one mad. What coarse, selfish fools we men are.
We judge women by ourselves, nay, not even by the

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

best in us, but often by the jests and cynicism and sneers
of others. And we won't see the truth ; we shut our
eyes obstinately to the fact that there are women in
whom affection is life itself, who live by giving, and
whose devotion is inexhaustible. Was it oil the
Magdalene poured out or her heart's blood ? There
are women who would use their blood gladly if warmth
were needed by the man they love. And we say they
want this and that — it's natural ; you said it to me six
months ago. I don't blame you, you only echoed my
own thought. But what they want, the good ones, is
love. Oh, there are others — yes, of course, there are.
If there weren't we shouldn't misjudge the good ones as
we do — to our own hurt and theirs. But talking of one's
mistakes doesn't remedy them. More's the pity.

" Doctor, I made up my mind on my way here, if
my case stood as I see you think it stands, to tell you
about my wife, so that you might know how to speak
to her when the time comes — but I can't find words.
There are things one cannot speak of even where need
is greatest. But remember this, all my folly is my own.
My wife is — so womanly and yet so much of an angel
that I, loving her, underrated her. Think of it and be
careful. No selfish consideration will touch her ; un-
selfish, ideal ones will move her to martyrdom. So,
speak of the child ; tell her how I longed to see her
training it ; how content I was to think of it in her care ;
how certain I was that she would be a perfect mother.
Afterwards, when the first grief is past, you may say

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

that I wished hcrto feel completely i'nv. M the ever
thinks of marrying again, let no memory of me conic in
her way. Ah, doctor, I've been very blind. Dante
saw the truth : a man, you know. WHS his ouide through
( he circling depths of hell, but a woman's soul led him
up the heights towards the Light. You'll be careful,
won't you ? "

" Yes," replied the doctor gravely. " I'll do my
best, you may be sure. But again I warn you — and I
was right before, wasn't I ? — you ought now to live by
rule. Why not spend a winter hi the South ; take
exercise, live in the open air ; I'll send you a nerve
tonic, and five years hence we'll talk the matter
over again."

" Perhaps I shall ; it's not for me to say. I want
to make no more mistakes, but I feel a little like the
gambler who has lost too much to stop playing. Besides,
I've followed my inclinations all my life, lived for my
tastes, and I'm afraid my will has grown feeble by
disuse. For weeks past I've wanted to come to see
you, but I couldn't leave her, couldn't bear to part from
her even for an hour. An hour with Marie, you don't
know what that's worth to me. Good-bye. If 1 knew
how to thank you I'd do it, for your promise means very
much to me. Good-bye."

And the two men's hands joined.

The door had scarcely closed behind the Count when
the doctor threw himself into a chair, and gave himself
up to his thoughts, which ran thus :

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

" He'll do it, very likely ; and yet he's no fool. That
remark of his about the disuse of his will was sensible.
Oh, these idealists ! They'll talk to you about the
4 blue vault of heaven,' when there's no vault and no
heaven, and no blue save in their own eyes. ' Angel,'
indeed. Fancy a man of the world — and that he is, or
ought to be — healthy, rich, with a great position, and
not superstitious, throwing fifteen years of a pleasant
life away for a thin school-girl, who has the wit to play
echo to his voice. And yet he infected me with his
sadness ; I felt sorry for him. Strange, generally I
have no feeling save curiosity in presence of any form of
lunacy. . . . Well, well, he did me a good turn once and
I'm glad to be able to do something for him and so clear
off the debt. I'll follow his lead, too, with her. Women
are always playing some part or other, but they like us
to accept the assumed character as the real one. The
wise man amuses himself by playing up to them if it
suits him, that's all. I wonder, though, how soon ' the
angel ' will think of a new role, when she finds herself
free to do as she pleases and rich. He's sure to have
left her everything he could. Poor devil! he was
always weakly generous."

As the Count was driven rapidly homeward, he
couldn't avoid thinking of Doctor Dupuy, for the
doctor's manner, now and then, had seemed to him
unsympathetic. Characteristically enough he tried to
argue himself out of this feeling.

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

"Perhaps I Wtt8 overwrought, and s<> felt things too
;ily. Yet I couldn't talk to him about Marie; but
then to whom could I talk freely of her ? He seemed
to be examining my mental state critically when I
showed him only a part of her manifold perfection.
Doctors, I suppose, like all other workmen, bear about
with them traces of their craft : they're occupied so
exclusively with the diseased body that health, the per-
fect balance of all faculties, seems uninteresting to them,
and they've no time whatever to think of the soul.
Hut Dupuy's a good fellow; at any rate, he's to be
trusted to do what he promised. How he'll do it is
another matter. I'll write to him when the time comes,
and then he'll take my letter to her. I'll find words
from the grave to lessen her grief, to comfort her, my
darling 1 " And the Count bit his lip to keep back the
tears.

" Oh, the misery of it, and the pity ! Had I but
known you, Marie — but who could imagine perfect sur-
render and joy in self-restraint ? Had I but known-
hut who could know that a child- woman could match
every wish and desire of a man and yet possess her own
soul in a sacred longing for the highest, the best.

"To have thrown away ten years' companionship
with Marie is to me worse than the bitterness of ten
thousand deaths. To have lost that — and all out of sheer
ignorance ! What a torture-chamber life is ! This evil
and that, numberless follies, crimes even, one commits.
They all pass unpunished, unnoted. Then one does

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

something, not even selfishly but ignorantly, and one's
scourged by scorpions of remorse till the soul sickens
and the brain's distraught. Fool that I am ! The
world's but a cunning machine ; woe to him who's
caught in the whirling teeth o' the wheel. Yet, if we
were punished justly, adequately for our offences, who'd
complain ? Whipped for the follies, mutilated for the
faults, 'twould be well. Long ere this, mankind so
schooled would have risen to free and happy lives on the
God-illumined heights. But no ! One's tempted by
immunity, cozened into confidence, and then, for some
small misstep, taken hesitatingly — not of desire — as a
child moves in the dark — one's racked and flayed and
done to death in useless martyrdom ! How I rave !
Revolt's silly. To live and curse the conditions of life
—childish !

" I'll try to think sensibly. I'm going back to Marie,
and can defy hurt when I've that thought to cling to.
Ah, me ! how divine a thing Life may become when
man learns how to live. Marie, Marie, there's peace,
and joy, and blessing in the very name. What does
anything matter when I've days yet, or weeks, or months,
or perhaps even years, to spend with her who can crowd
the emotions of a lifetime into a moment. I'll think
of her always, and she'll save me from that dreadful
night of remorse. She'll save me ; when was Marie slow
to help ? I'll never think of the end at all. Why
should I meet pain half-way ? I'll think of her, and no
remorse or bitterness can touch me then. I'll act as

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

may be best for her when the time comes ; but I'll
not torture myself beforehand. I'll think of her, and
the music1 uf her voice will be in my ears, and her smile in
my eyes, and her hands in my hands, and the sweetness
of her loveliness — these will dwell with me to the end.
44 The horses crawl. And she'll be anxious for my
return. I wonder when she'll tell me her secret.
The mystery of it is about her now. The doctor in
Dupuy doubted me— took it for senile conceit, I suppose.
How much he misses of Life's best, that poor doctor !
Hut I — I think of Marie. When she feels the child quick
iu her, when the joy of motherhood comes to her even
iu anticipation, then she'll want to share her bliss with
me. Now all's fear and wonder in her. Will she be
shy, or nobly frank, or — ah ! something much finer,
more beautiful, and more natural than my dull brains
can imagine. All possibilities in her save deceit. And
till she speaks I'll see nothing, notice nothing. Of
course, Marie shall keep her secret^ unpolluted by look,
or hint, or word of mine till her own heart renders it.
To-night I'll be very cheerful ; she's anxious about me
— divines son id hing of my secret, which must be guarded
to the end, for her sake ; for I've no joy to share ! She
gives, and I receive — with thanks. That's all."

CHAPTER IV. — LIFE'S LONELINESS

A COUPLE of weeks after the visit of the Count to
Doctor Dupuy, husband and wife were seated together

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

one evening in front of a cedar-wood fire. A great
Japanese screen in three panels, gorgeous with strange
birds in mother-of-pearl, and animals in gold lacquer,
and flowers with ivory leaves, framed them in from the
length and height of the drawing-room. The Count
was in an arm-chair, with shaded candles behind him ;
the Countess, on a low cushion-seat in front, her right
arm resting on his knees, was gazing into the fire.

" Pierre tells me you used to read every evening
before you married, and now you scarcely ever open a
book. Why's that ? "

" My learning-time is over, child, and, if you must
know, my eyes are not as strong as they were. Besides,
I find it more interesting to have your companionship."

" I feel that, too, and I never wish to be away from
you even for a minute, but I do leave you now some-
times. Do you know where I go ? " she went on, as if
talking to herself. " To the church to pray. I used to
pray quick, quick, in the morning, before the crucifix
in my dressing-room and hurry to you. Only at night
I prayed seriously — prayed that when sorrow should
come to us, as sorrow comes to all, that I might bear the
pain. I'd have been glad to suffer for you ; 'twould
have been sweet to make our love secure by a little pain.
I shouldn't have minded it so long as you were safe.
But now I want to go to the church and pray before a
shrine — to the Divine Mother " (the voice was very low,
but the Count heard). " You know why, my husband.
I saw you knew weeks ago and that made me very shy,

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

so I didn't speak, but now I must, for, Raoul, I want you

to share my joy and, and — to come with me. You
I know you don't believe as I do, and I used often to
think we'd be punished because of your unbelief, and
because I did nothing to change you, but I couldn't.
I was too happy, and loved you too much. I used to
think if we had to suffer, it didn't matter much so long
as we were together. But now, Raoul, we're not alunr,
and it doesn't seem fair that another life should perhaps
suffer for our sins. So I want you to come with me.
I knew you would ; just as you do everything I wish,
that's what made it hard to ask you. Do you know, it
seems to do me more good now to pray to Mary — I feel
she understands me better — than it ever did to pray to
Jesus or to God. And oh ! I want to pray so often,
for my heart's always trembling. Often at night I lie
awake and grow cold with fear — I don't know what of.
" Doesn't life come on one quickly ? A little while
ago you took me from the school, and then you brought
me here and showed me how strange and beautiful and
full of joy life was ; and now — now I feel as if my turn
were come to live my life, alone. No ! I don't mean
quite that, but as if / had duties, other duties than a
wife's. I've tried to please you as a wife, I really tried ;
it made me happy to try to do what I thought you'd
like, even when at first it seemed hard — almost wrong —
to do some things." (The Count bent forwards and
stroked the small head lovingly.) " Later 'twas eas
and, as she spoke, she suddenly leant back and, winding

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

her arms about her husband's neck, kissed his lips.
" But now," she went on, leaning an arm on his knees
as before, and turning to the fire, " I must think of our
child. How strange and wonderful it seems. I feel
lonely now, very lonely. For all by myself I must think
of things — not with you and for you, which was always
companionship — and decide by myself. I'm proud
and anxious and glad and fearful, lonely and never
alone — all together.

" You must never think I love you less, dear. I
love you more. Do you notice I never tease you now ?
My scholar-husband is perfect now in my eyes. You
were always so gentle and kind. I used to think I'd
like to see you angry really, like to feel a little afraid of
you, and tremble and admire you, so I used to tease
you that perfection might become imperfect to suit my
girlish taste. But now I'm quite content, more than
content, for on you I can rest securely, and I want to
feel safe now. Life is chanceful enough and far too
dangerous to let me wish for doubts of you, and conflicts
— victories or defeats — between us. I'm glad to feel
quite secure here. It may weary you, though, never to
be teased, to be loved always without ever being
tormented. No ? How sweet that ' Ah, no ' was.

" Isn't it strange ! You mustn't think me super-
stitious, but I know our child will be a boy. If 'twere
a girl, 'twould all be easy for me. But a boy will need
you to help me. He'll soon be bold and strong, reckless
and self-willed, as young men should be, and I'll not

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

know how to control him. I \\ -;mf ( o be perfect mother
and perfect wife. I'll be very proud of him, as I am of
you, dear, only in a different way.

44 Have I been a good wife, Raoul ? ' A charming
one ? ' Well, that's because I loved you, and, besides,
I wouldn't be outdone. How it delights me to feel in
the lingering caress of your hands that you love me as
much us ever. That's my reward. But now the paths
divide. I mustn't ride with you any more ; you know
'twould be dangerous.

" Oh, he'll be manly, I'm sure, and a great man,
I hope. When I've grown old it'll make me young again
to see the girls in love witli him. Aren't you glad,
Raoul ? Isn't it a joy ? Say."

" A great joy, dear. I'm glad and happy."

44 1 should think you would be happy. Happy,
indeed ! Wild with joy."

k' Wild with joy," the Count repeated, smiling.

11 And you'll stay \\ itli my son and me, always kind
as you are now ? You'll not begin to leave us ? No.
That's good to hear. I wonder whether any woman in
the world was ever as perfectly contented as I am now."

The Count's love for his young wife was so intense
that it enabled him to show her perfect sympathy and
tenderness so long as he was with her, but as soon as he
found himself in his bedroom alone, pain mastered him.
For he was not only weakened by the humility which
is the flower of love, but tortured by the cruel diffidence
of age, and the courage in him forced him to realise

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

what he conceived to be his position. His thoughts
ran somewhat thus :

" So, it was all for the best, and my self-reproach
vain. I must just go on as I began. She doesn't
need me. All these months she wanted ' to tremble
and be afraid ' of me, her ' conqueror,' and — what was
it ? Yes, ' the boy'll be bold and strong, reckless and
self-willed, as young men should be.' And I thought I
could fill her life, realise her ideal, was necessary to her ?
Well, I was mistaken, that's all. Yes, as it is, it's best
for her. Clearly. And that's what I ought to want —
do want. Yet, how the little blindnesses of those we
love pierce through the joints of our harness, reach the
heart and hurt. But then, I couldn't have loved her
so well, had she been different ! She's a woman-child
still, and life, as she said so sweetly, has come upon her
quickly. It's natural in her to love even the trappings
of boldness — the braveries of youth. She'd have
suffered fearfully had I seemed perfect to her. It's best
as it is. Even the woman we love cannot know us
wholly. One is always alone in the world, quite alone.
Marie has begun to realise this, too. Ah me ! And her
nature's not even formed yet. But, at any rate, she
sha'n't be plagued with a poor, feeble, tottering wretch.
My pain's for her good. That's enough. I shall rest
well, and she'll find content easily."

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IN THE VALE OF TEAKS

CHAPTER V

IT was a bitter morning towards the end of January.
An icy north-east wind whistled through the bare
branches and along the deserted walks of the Pare Mon-
ceau, driving before it the few small flakes of snow which
drifted, as it seemed, hesitatingly, from the leaden clouds
that cloaked the sky. A gloomy, bitter day which
seemed to intensify the warmth and cheerfulness of the
morning-room in the Hotel de Varenne. For the room
had been transformed by the will of the Countess, and
it \\iis with no small satisfaction that she now regarded
her handiwork. And, in truth, the room had gained in
comfort and attractiveness by her alterations, even if it
had lost somewhat in character. Two or tliree Cuyps,
a magnificent Corot, and half-a-dozen water-colours shed
peace and summer radiance from the walls ; some Louis
Quinze chairs and cabinets, too, rested the eyes and
amused the senses. The great bronze mantelpiece
designed and executed by Barye now adorned the hall,
but in its place was a charming full-length portrait of
the Countess, craftfully painted by Carolus Duran.
His sketch had been a masterpiece ; he kept it in his
studio ; the portrait was a picture showing traces of
genius and real mastery of hand. As the Countess
moved about the room in a pretty loose dressing-gown,
arranging masses of hot -house flowers with a certain
conventional deftness of choice, one who had known her

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

before her marriage would scarcely have recognised her.
Her beauty would have been denied now by no one.
The figure was rounded to womanly perfection of curve ;
the stately carriage of the head did not recall her former
nun-like appearance. Still, however, in obedience to
her husband's wish the Countess wore her hair in the
old simple braids and knot, and so she still preserved
something of the subtle charm which belongs to a
marked individuality. Her cheeks were fuller, the
oval of the face more perfect ; the eyes had gained in
colour, even the rings around them added a certain
languor of expression that but increased their loveliness.
And yet the woman's beauty was more conventional
than the girl's had been. One missed the intellectual
severity of outline, the promise, too, of indefinite
development which had given to the girl's face an
extraordinary fascination.

When the flowers were arranged to her liking the
Countess rang.

" You can serve the breakfast, Pierre, but first tell
the Count that it's ready."

" Oh, madame, M. le Comte has been ready a
long time. He told me to tell Madame he had important
letters to write, but he'd be quite ready by twelve o'clock.
And it's nearly twelve now. M. le Comte, I think,
doesn't sleep as well as he used to. He misses his rides,

I'm sure, and " As the Countess didn't seem to be

listening Pierre broke off abruptly and disappeared.

" That's true," said the Countess half to herself when

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IN TIIE VALE OF TEARS

alone, with a slight pang of remorse. " Fin afraid I'm
growing Miftlh J I must get him (<> go out as he used
to. He'll enjoy it and I shall have more time for
certain otJir duties — which, too, are pleasures."

And she smiled softly as she sank into a large causeiise
and abandoned herself with a sense of exquisite enjoy-
ment to a reverie rose-tinged.

When Pierre entered his master's room and delivered
his message, the Count, without turning towards him,
answered simply :

44 Tell the Countess that I shall be down in a quarter
of an hour or so, and let me know when the breakfast's
served — and, Pierre, decant a bottle of the old Madeira
and bring me a tumbler of it at once. I don't feel very
well this morning."

" M. le Comte does not mean the 34? — that would
be waste — for a glass — like drinking gold."

" Dons I toll you, Pierre ! " replied the Count quietly,
adding as if to himself, " I might drink pearls now
without extravagance." As the door closed he went
on thinking aloud :

44 So ! All my affairs are in order. These two letters
were all I had to do. The Princess, frank, loyal kindly
as she is, will be the best of friends to Marie for my
sake. And this letter to Dupuy, which I won't seal up
t ill t he last moment, will be a guide to him and do Marie
good when she reads it. I wonder only if the post-
script's right. Will it help her ? Yes. I ask Dupuy
t.» -i\e her the miniature of my mother — Marie will

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

value that for my sake — and the Cross they gave me
after Gravelotte. I don't care for it, but she'll be glad
to know I won it. Had I known her then I might still
perhaps have realised her ideal. It's always too soon
or too late in this world, I perceive. But why should I
make moan ? It's perhaps best as it is. I've often
thought lately that the age she feels in me makes her
lean to youth and its livery more than she otherwise
would- It's all my fault — the fault of age. Besides,
I've lived too much with books, and by myself outside
the world of action, to be bold and confident. Her finer
sense may have felt this as a fault. It's better so ;
she'll suffer less. I wonder do women grow as men may
all through life. Their desires seem bounded by the
goal of motherhood. What a perfect mother Marie will
be. How I wish I could have seen her with her child."
He sighed heavily. " The child will console her, I feel
sure."

At this moment Pierre entered the room with the
wine. The Count drained the glass offered to him, and
without turning round said : " Leave the bottle here and
tell me as soon as breakfast's served. Don't keep it
back for me ; I'm quite ready."

" But M. le Comte's not really ill ? " asked the old
man hesitatingly.

" No, Pierre ; not really ill, I hope, but a little out of
sorts. Post this letter, and remember when you come to
wake me in the morning if you ever find a letter on the
table near my bed for Doctor Dupuy, and I'm asleep, take

122

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

it at once in a cab and deliver it. Do you understand ?
You must <jive it to the doctor as soon as you can."

"Yes, M. le Comte," replied Pierre, in a somewhat
aggrieved tone, " I understand ; but the doctor's no
good. If M. le Comte would ride every morning as he
used to do and go to the Salle (TArmes two or three times
a week he'd be as limber and well now as he was a year
ago. M. le Comte himself told me that exercise was
good, though I think as we grow old we can easily do too
much — especially before breakfast. M. le Comte should
try a little glass of cordial in the morning. That warms
the blood and seems to give new life. But then habit's
everything. M. le Comte has broken his habits ; he's
not well ; he should go back to them. Madame I'm
sure would be glad ; she'd do anything for M. le Comte's
health ; she's so good."

" Yes, Pierre, I know ; but now go on with your work
and let me know when I'm to come down."

As the servant left the room the Count got up from
the desk and walked to the dressing-table and looked at
himself in the glass.

" No. I've not got complete control of it yet, though
I can move it a little now. I believe the Madeira's
better than Dupuy's tonic. Was it chance or science
that made him hit on the very symptom which shows
itself in my case ? He said, in that first talk we had
together, that an eyelid might droop and I'd not have
the power of pulling it up again. Chance evidently, for
he told me the other day that a dose of his tonic would

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

chase away any such symptom in half-an-hour, and two
doses have not given me control of this left eyelid in
three hours. I'm weaker, I suppose, than he thought
it possible to be without something giving way. That
means, I've no time to lose — or to keep, is it ?

" I don't feel frightened — not at all. Life has, on the
whole, been good to me : this last seven months as
nearly perfect happiness as man has ever known or can
know. Come, be a man, Raoul ! Don't think of the
parting from her or you'll be fit for nothing — and don't
think of the grave, for that's silly, the worms won't eat
you ; you won't feel anything. Suppose you'd had a leg
cut off ; its destination wouldn't trouble you much.
The worms might eat that and welcome. And you see
now it's best for her as it is. You know that, don't
you?

44 Close your eyes and think of the best moments in
these last months. What sweet memories ! To-day I'll
do whatever she wishes, try to give her twelve happy
hours, then, this last day will be a joy to me. It was
my fate to die so — no illness, no senile weakness in body
or mind, life rounded off to a perfect close with Marie
to the last. I'll think of to-day and not trouble myself
about what comes afterwards. Even now Marie is
waiting for me.

44 Ah ! the eyelid's under my control at last ; so I
can go downstairs. How badly the writers have de-
scribed a man's last day on earth. His face doesn't
alter ; he doesn't rave with fear and horror. Perhaps

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

it is that even Death grows common by acquaintance.
I feel almost light-lu-arlvil. It is very well as it is, for
both of us.

"1 wish, though, I had done something to pay my
debt to mankind. And yet what could I have done but
say that part of every life should be given to books and
things of beauty ? No one could make much of that.
The regret's so slight, it doesn't hurt. Someone else
will help men more than I could have done, had I
laboured all my life. Now I go to Marie — calm ? Yes
— but with a catching of the breath and too much self-
absorbed. All right, Pierre, the wine has done me good.
I'll go down."

As he entered the room the Countess came quickly
towards him. kt Ilalf-an-hour I've been down, sir —
thirty minutes by the clock. Aren't you ashamed
of yourself ? My love ! how well you're looking
this morning; there's colour in your cheeks; you're
quite your old self. But you mustn't keep me waiting
so, Raoul. These last five minutes have been five
ages."

44 At twenty," replied the Count with a quick smile,
as hr put his hand caressingly on her shoulder, " "
minutes are five ages.' I'm sorry to have kept you
waiting, but I've been thinking of you, and so the time
passed quickly. Do you know what I've been thinking ?
I'd like to have a perfect day to-day — do whatever you
may wish ; gratify any whim of yours, any fancy ; lend
myself to your mood ; be sentimental or gay, pleasure-

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

loving or pedantic, husband or lover, soldier or saint,
just as you, my queen, may decide for this one day.
I'm too stiff to play a new part long."

" How light-hearted you are 1" laughed the Countess.
" Let's have breakfast first, and I'll tell you what I'd
like when I've had time to consider. I'll take full
advantage of such unwonted generosity, you may be
sure."

A few moments later she took up the thought again
seriously : " Do you know what I'd like ? I'd like to
ask Madame de River olles to dine with us. I want to
show her this new room, and I want to talk to her.
Besides, we've scarcely seen her since our marriage, and
that's selfish of us, very selfish."

The Count's face had changed a little at his wife's
proposal, but before she had finished speaking, and
looked up for his assent, he had mastered himself and
answered in his usual quiet tone :

" I'd have preferred to spend the day with you alone,
but I've promised, so be it as you will ! "

" Yes ! " she said gaily, but with a tone of affection-
ate tenderness in her voice, " and so should I, but we
shall have until dinner-time together, lover mine !
Besides, I think I've been selfish in keeping you so
entirely to myself. That reminds me. You must begin
your morning rides again to-morrow. No, I'll take no
refusal. They do you good ; you can't deny it, and it'll
do you good, too, to meet people. You mustn't be so
much of a recluse. It's your one failing. Besides, I

126

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

want to sec Madame de Riverolles very much. She
has been very kind to me, and 1 have things to talk
about with her hi which even you, sir, are not learned."

After a long and pleasant evening Madame de Rive-
rolles took leave of " her children," well pleased with
their manifest happiness. Although it wasn't really
late yet as soon as her visitor had left the Countess
proposed to retire — she had grown careful of her health
lately. Mutely the Count assented by rising. He
stopped at the door, however, and, turning, cast a long
look over the room ; as he closed the door his heart
almost ceased to beat. Everything he did now seemed
to say to him "it's for the last time." Yet he went on,
scarcely pausing. As one in a dream he followed his
wife into her bedroom, and when she went into her
dressing-room he placed himself mechanically near the
almost-closed door, and leaning against the wall waited
for her return while she talked. He was only conscious
of pain, pain in the heart. His thoughts were feelings ;
his soul seemed to gasp and faint within him. "Never
again," he felt, in throbs of agony, " shall I be near her
as now — never again pass another evening beside her—
never again." And then time seemed to hasten and leap
as did the pumping of his heart. " Soon she'll come out
and kiss me for the last time," he thought, and then lie
saw himself going to his own room, and felt the darkness
come about him. All at once his love seemed to bring
him courage in a warm wave. He'd listen to her then

127

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

while he could, and live every minute to the end. And
so he heard :

" We must go out more and entertain a little. I
don't mean now, but in a year or so. It'll do you
good. . . . You never were more charming than this
evening. Your manner to Madame de Riverolles was
perfect — so sympathetic and deferential. I was very
proud of you, and yet just a little jealous. . . . Going
into the world will make you brighter — young again
in fact, though you're younger now than most young
men."

4 Yes ! " interjected the Count with an effort, for his
throat was parched. But his wife evidently noticed
nothing strange in the strained, toneless voice, for she
went on :

" I want to know life and be very worldly-wise, for
my child's sake later. When he grows up he must find
friends and a place in the world ready for him. I feel
I ought to begin at once to make sacrifices for him.
Don't you ? " And as she asked the question the
Countess opened the door and stood before her husband
in her dressing-gown, with unbound hair. The fragrance
of her youth and beauty had never seemed to the Count
to be so intoxicatingly seductive.

" Yes, dear ! " he replied, carried away from his own
thoughts and brought to self-possession by the sight of
the woman he loved; " but don't make useless ones.
The vanities and envy of the world aren't a good milieu.
The finest flowers only grow in garden and hot- house.

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IN TIIK VALE OF TEARS

But now tell UK-"— and as he spoke he took her in
his amis with an infinite tenderness — "Are you glad
now, Marie, that you yielded to my love and married
me?"

44 How can you ask such a silly question ! Of
course I'm glad; more than glad. I've been very,
very happy, and shall be even happier soon, I
think."

And she sighed contentedly, while the Count drew a
deep breath, as if oppressed.

" You see, Raoul," and here she wound herself out of
his arms, and spoke with excited earnestness, " I want
my child to be very proud of his mother ; and I think
he'll be pleased later if I am someone in our Woman's
Kingdom Society."

44 1 understand."

44 Besides, I think one gets peculiar when one lives
much alone, just as one gets stiff by sitting too long
in the same position. A little change and excitement
does everyone good."

4 What good reasons one can find for what one wants
to do ! "

4 Yes." And the Countess laughed, nodding her
head. 44 But at the same time, Raoul, you will always
be more important to me than all other people put
together. You don't doubt that, do you ? "

44 No." And the Count drew another deep breath.
This time his wife heard the sigh.

44 But you're tired, Raoul. And so pale, dear. Your
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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

high spirits have worn you out. Now say ' good-night '
at once, and go to bed."

As she spoke she came to him, and put her arms,
from which the sleeves slipped back, round his neck, and
held her face up to be kissed.

Holding her to him, and looking into her eyes, the
Count asked :

" Tell me first ! You've been really happy with me ?
Very happy ? "

"You know I have," the girl- wife answered,
nodding her head as she spoke, and shutting and
opening both eyes rapidly several times in a peculiarly
childish way, which, however, added earnestness to her
words. " And, now, good-night, dear ; and mind you
sleep well."

The Countess had been asleep for more than an hour
when the Count rose from his bed, put on a dressing-
gown, and began quietly to make certain preparations.
He first closed his door gently, and then coming back
took a bottle from his cabinet, and laid a silver syringe
beside it ready for use on the little table by his bedside.
Out of the same cabinet he took the letter to Doctor
Dupuy, and read it carefully over.

44 1 can't better that," he said to himself at length ;
44 but the request to give her my Cross is foolish. Petty,
wounded vanity : and I have done with vanities now.
Besides, she's quick and sensitive, too ; she might under-
stand from it that I wished to reproach her for some

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IN THK VALE OF TEAKS

thoughtless speech. What poor creatures we men are
That may have been at the bottom of my thought."
As he spoke he carefully cut away that part of the
postscript and burnt it in the candle-flame. As it
shrivelled to ashes in his fingers, he continued thinking
aloud :

" Strange. I have no hesitations now, no shadow of
fear. A regret — of habit and of memory. As lovers
cherish withered flowers for their remembered sweetness
so we cling to life when all its perfume's spent. And
even such regret is dulled by the inevitable.

"Napoleon's word is vulgar; there's a better than
two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage, the courage which
has nothing physical in it, but which comes altogether
from the intelligence, whether of the thinker or the
artist. To end life fitly, as a tale well told, that's enough
for my measure. One puts away the empty glass.
Better blow out the candle than let it flicker and gutter
inipotently to its sense-disgusting end."

As he spoke he closed the letter to Doctor Dupuy
and laid it with its address upwards on his table. He
made a movement as if to throw off his dressing-gown,
but paused on the action.

44 No. I'll look at her once again before I go," and
he pressed his lips together tightly, as if it pained him
to draw his breath. " I knew I should. I meant to,
otherwise I'd have gone mad in these last two hours'
waiting. That was the thought which kept the pain
away — again I'll see the face that lights the world for

IN THE VALE OF TEARS

me. Marie, my love, my soul's delight, how could I
go without a last farewell ! "

Quietly he passed through his dressing-room and
entered his wife's chamber. By the dim light of a
veilleuse at the bed s head he saw she was sleeping with
her back to his apartments. The thought gave him a
sense of keenest pleasure. She felt secure on that side.
He moved round the foot of the bed and looked at her
as she slept, his soul in his eyes. A minute, perhaps, he
stood so, and then, as if drawn by an irresistible power,
passed to her side, and, stooping, laid his lips on her
forehead. The girl didn't hear the breathing of her
name, nor feel consciously the lips upon her brow, but,
nevertheless, she moved in her sleep, and drew a long
breath as of complete content.

As he came into his own room again and closed the
door behind him quietly, the Count stood rigidly for
some time holding his breath, as if the slightest move-
ment would have been too much for his strength. Then
with a deep sigh he sank down in an arm-chair. A little
later the words broke from him :

" That's the terror of it, and the torture. If I could
have been with her for two or three years more her
future would have been safer, for she's very clear-
sighted. Now I dread the sex in her. She may fall in
love with some rollicking, devil-may-care soldier, whose
boldness comes chiefly from health and carelessness of
others' suffering. Why should that thought sting so ?
Partly the wretched selfishness in me, I suppose ; but

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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

more because she'd suffer terribly, my delicate darling.
. . . But she'll have time to think. Her child, and her
own great clear eyes, will save her, I hope. The bitter-
ness of it all ! How I wish I could have been with her
for two or three years more, just to guide and leave
her safe. But is one ever really able to guide another ?
Ah, me ! In this life impotence itself 's a consolation.

44 How I suffer — pYaps she'll suffer some day as I'm
suffering now. Ah ! I mustn't think. I but fall from
deep to lower deep of agony. And yet it's probable.
We all follow the same road — life's road, which leads
nowhither ; impenetrable night shrouding its end as
its beginning. And every soul must tread that road
alone. Oh, Marie, Marie 1 My poor darling !

44 Forgive me, dear, the pain it'll cause you. Ah,
she'll forgive — there's no doubt of that. One thing
stands sure : in her eyes I've seen the love that will yet
redeem humanity. And so she lights the darkness.
Could I but do as much for her. Can I do nothing more
for her ? " And as he spoke the Count rose — 44 Nothing,
save leave her, for her good. I'm very tired now ; tired
past thought. I'll go." He went over to the table and
filled the syringe.

44 How greedily it sucks the morphia up ! Child that
I am ! It's only a machine ; am I more ? " As he
spoke he put the bottle carefully away in a drawer.
44 Dupuy will know \vlu-ro to find it." Then, looking at
the syringe, he thought again aloud :

4 What a small key to unlock that door. Going out
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IN THE VALE OF TEARS

into the night one should open and close the door quietly,
so as not to disturb the household. Where should I
put it in ? It doesn't matter. The keyhole's not
larger than a pin-prick ! "

As he spoke he lifted on his breast a small pinch of
flesh between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
He then inserted the needle-like point of the syringe,
and carefully injected the whole of its contents. After
looking to make sure that the instrument was empty,
he washed and dried it, replacing it then in the same
drawer in which he had put the bottle.

" Progress ? Yes. Better means to the same end.
A syringe filled with morphia is perhaps better than asp
or dagger ; but nothing to brag of, after all."

As he spoke he took off his dressing-gown and got into
the bed.

" Ah, passing into the dark one shivers. The night
air's cold."

One after the other he blew out the candles, and
settled himself to rest in his usual position. Then
silence came and filled the room. A little later 'twas
stirred by the Count's voice murmuring :

" Thanks, Jeanne; thanks."

And with a little sigh, as of a tired child, the dreamer
slept.

134

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

AN old-fashioned square house on Long Island,
set in a clearing of pine-trees ; a break in the
cliff shows a little triangle of sandy beach and
the waters of the Sound dancing in the moonlight.
Half-a-dozen men are sitting about on the stoop looking
over the silvery waters.

The evening papers had published an account of Mrs
Amory's will, which showed that she had left half-a-
million dollars to a nursing home for mill children in
Philadelphia. The news set us a 11 talking of the wonder-
ful work she had done and her self-sacrifice. Most of us
assumed that it was a religious motive that had induced
this rich and, it was said, handsome woman to give
years of her life to improving the lot of the city's waifs
and strays.

The ladies left us and went up to bed ; but we still
discussed the matter. Suddenly Charlie Railton turned
to Judge Barnett of the Supreme Court of the State of
New York, who sat with his chair tilted back against
the wall ruminating.

" Say, Judge, what do you think of it anyway ? I'd
like to hear your opinion."

11 1 have no opinion on the matter," replied the Judge,
taking the cigar out of his mouth and speaking very

137

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

slowly. " I don't know women well enough to be sure
about anything where they're concerned."

" Plead guilty, Judge," cried Railton, who was about
thirty years of age, " plead guilty and throw yourself on
the mercy of the court ; I guess you know women better
than most men, and they're pretty easy to know, it
seems to me."

" I used to think so too," said the Judge, " but I got
kind o' puzzled once and I've never been sure since."

" How was that, Judge," cried our host, one of the
boldest speculators on the New York Stock Exchange,
scenting a mystery.

" It's a long story," said Barnett deliberately, " and
it's pretty late already."

We all protested and called for the story, and the
Judge began :

" It takes one a long way back, I'm afraid : back to
the late sixties, and it's autobiographical too : I guess it
has every fault."

" Go on," we cried in chorus.

" After being admitted to the Bar," he resumed, " I
went up to my mother's place in Maine to rest. Along
in the winter I got pneumonia on a shooting trip, and
could not shake it off. I crawled through the summer
and then made up my mind to go to California or some-
where warm for the winter : I was fed up with snow and
blizzards. I spent the winter in Santa Barbara and got
as fit as a young terrier.

" In the spring I went to 'Frisco, and there in a

138

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

gymnasium and boxing saloon got to know a man who
was about the best athlete I ever struck. Winterstein
might have been heavy-weight champion if he had
trained, and he was handsome enough for a stage lover.
He was just under six feet in height, with bold expression
and good features ; dark hair in little curls all over his
head and agate-dark eyes which grew black when he
was excited or angry.

" I found he was a better man physically than I was,
and that was the beginning of our friendship ; we soon
became intimate and he told me all about his early life.
He was born in the north of England, and became a
sailor in the English navy, but he could not stand the
rigid discipline, poor food and harsh treatment. He
deserted in Quebec while still a lad, and made his way
to New York. He had not had much education, but
he had improved what he had by reading. Like most
men of intelligence who have not had a college training
he set great store by books and book learning, and got
me to help him with mathematics. He had a captain's
certificate, it appeared, but he wanted to know naviga-
tion thoroughly ; he surprised me one day by telling
me he owned a little vessel which was nearly ready for
sea.

" ' I have just had her overhauled,' he said. 4 Would
you like to come and see her ? She's lying off Meiggs's. '

44 4 What do you do with her ? ' I questioned, full of
curiosity.

44 4 1 go pearling,' he said ; 4 pearls are found nearly

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

all round the Gulf of California. The fisherfolk rake
in the oysters and lay them on the beach till they get
bad and open of themselves. The children collect the
pearls and keep them until I come round. I paid for
the craft and have a couple of thousand dollars put by
from last year's work.'

" ' But where did you learn about pearls ? ' I said.

" ' I worked for a man once and picked it up. Some-
times I make a little mistake, but not often. You see,
we go to out-of-the-way places, where we reckon to give
about a quarter what the pearls are worth. That leaves
a good margin for mistakes.'

" 4 But I had no idea that there were pearls in the
Gulf?' I said.

" ' Why not come along and see for yourself ? ' he said.
4 I'll be starting in a week. The schooner had to have
her bottom cleaned and the copper repaired. That's
what's hung me up for this last month or so. Now I'm
about right for another year. If you'd like to come, I'd
be glad to have you.'

44 4 And make me mate ? ' I asked, laughing.

44 4 Commander,' he replied seriously ; 4 and you shall
have ten per cent, of the profits.'

" 4 I'll think it over and let you know,' was my answer.

44 The adventure tempted me, the strange life and
work, the novelty of the thing : I resolved to go pearling,
I went with Winterstein to the wharf and he showed
his ship to me. She looked like a toy vessel, a little
schooner, a fifty-footer of about forty tons. She sat on

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

the water like a duck, a little New Midland model with
IxMutiful lines. Wintcrstein introduced me to his t
mute, Donkin, and his second mate, Crawford. Donkin
was a big lump of a fellow, six feet two in height, broad
in proportion and brawny, a good seaman. Crawford,
I soon found out, was an even better sailor and more
intelligent, though of only average strength.

"'What about the crew?' I asked Winterstein
when we were alone in the little cabin.

44 4 1 want one more man and a boy,' he replied,
laughing at my surprised face.

44 4 But,' I retorted, ' you can't have three officers and
one man.'

44 4 It's like this,' he said ; 4 Donkin has only been a
second mate, but he gets a first mate's certificate pro-
vided he stays with me a year, and the same thing with
Crawford. The work is not hard,' he added apolo-
getically ; 4 they get good wages and a lift in rank, and
it suits them, and so I get first-rate work cheap. Four
or five men can manage this craft easy so long as we
don't strike a cyclone; and there ain't much dirty
weather in the Gulf.'

44 A couple of days later Winterstein told me shyly
that he had been married recently, and after I had con-
gratulated him he insisted that I must come and be
introduced to the prettiest girl in California. All the
\\ay up town he praised his young wife and the praise,
I found, was not extravagant. Mrs Winterstein was
charming : tall and fair, with Irish grey eyes : her

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

shyness and love of Winterstein put a sort of aureole
about her. She was of Irish parentage : before her
marriage her name had been Rose O'Connor. Nothing
would do but I must call her Rose at once. The pair
lived in a little frame-house on the side of the bluff,
where now there is a famous park. An old Irishwoman
did the chores for Rose and mothered and scolded her
just as she had done before her marriage. Rose, I
learned, had been a teacher in the High School. In the
next few days I saw a good deal of her. She was doing
up the cabin and buying knick-knacks for the three tiny
state-rooms, and I naturally ran her errands and tried to
save her trouble.

;4 Whenever I ventured a shy compliment she always
told me I must see her sister Daisy, who was at Sacra-
mento in a finishing school. Daisy was lovely and Daisy
was clever ; there was no one like Daisy in her sister's
eyes.

" It was a perfect June morning, with just air enough
to make the sun dance on the ripples, when at length
we were all ready on board and starting out of the bay.

" Our crew had been completed by a young darky
called Abraham Lincoln, who at once took over the
cooking, and a sailor called Dyer, who was a little lame,
but handy enough at his work.

" The first part of the cruise was uneventful : it
might have been a yachting trip. Day after day we
sailed along in delightful sunshine, with a six or eight

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

knot bree/.e. The pe.-feel eondilions would have been
monotonous hud we not amused ourselves with lishing.
One day I remember we got rather rough weather, and
when Winterstein, Donkin and myself took our bearings
next day we found that we had been swept some distance
to the westward.

44 It was Crawford who solved the enigma for us. He
told us there was a current called the West Wind Drift
which sets across the Pacific from east to west, as if
making for 'Frisco, and then flows down the coast from
north to south till it meets the North Equatorial current
which comes from the south and sweeps out to the west,
carrying the tail end, so to speak, of the Drift with it.
Where the two opposing currents meet, off the South
Calif ornian coast, one often finds a heavy sea and
variable cross-winds. But as soon as we turned into
the (iulf the line weather began.

;t The trading, which I had hoped would be full of
adventure, turned out to be quite simple and tame.
We ran along the shore, stopping wherever there was
;i village. Usually we dropped anchor pretty close in
and rowed ashore. At nine places out of ten Winter-
stem was known. The fishermen brought out their little
cotton bags of pearls and we bought them. Curiously
enough, the black pearl, so esteemed to-day, had then
no value at all. Whenever we bought a packet of white
pearls, the black ones were thrown in as not worth
estimating. The pink pearls, too, had no price, unless

ey were exceptionally large or beautifully shaped, and

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

even then they were very cheap. I began to collect the
black pearls to make a necklace for Mrs Winterstein.
I was half in love with her, I think, from the beginning.
She was not only very pretty, but laughter-loving and
girlish, and her little matronly airs sat drolly upon her.
Everyone on board liked her, I don't know why. I
suppose she wanted to please us all ; for she was full
of consideration for everyone. I have never seen any
woman who appealed so unconsciously and so directly
to the heart, and her happiness was something that had
to be seen to be believed. She simply adored her
husband, waited on him hand and foot, and pampered
all his little selfishnesses. She was only unhappy when
away from him, or when it was rough weather and she
was sea-sick. Curiously enough, in spite of the long
cruise, she never became a good sailor. In fine weather
she was all right, but the moment the Rose commenced
to lob about Mrs Winterstein used to retire to her cabin.
" I told no one about the necklace. I simply annexed
all the black pearls and determined to get them strung
together as soon as we got back to 'Frisco. I never
landed without asking after them, and even went so far
as to buy some which were being used by the native
children as trinkets. I remember once coming across
an extraordinary specimen, as big as a marble, perfectly
round and with a perfect skin. We were passing a
cabin where a couple of mestizo girls of fourteen and
sixteen were seated on the sand playing a game of bones,
which I think must be as old as the world, for the Greeks

144

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

knew it as astragalos. You throw the round bones up
into the air and turn your hand round quickly and
catch them on the back. Among the five bones was
a black pearl, which I admired at once and bought — for
a quarter, I think. I can still see the half -naked girl-
child as she handed it to me. She stood on one leg
like a stork, and with her right foot rubbed her left
ankle, while glancing at me half shyly out of great
liquid dark eyes. She had only a red calico wrap
about her body, out of the folds of which one small
round amber breast showed ; but she was evidently
unconscious of her nudity — a child in mind, a woman
in body.

" I have absolutely nothing interesting to tell of this
first cruise. We stopped once where the sea must have
receded from the land, for the town was some four miles
inland. I have forgotten the name of the place, but it
was quite a town — some two or three thousand inhabit-
ants. The smell of the oysters on the sea-beach, I re-
member, was overpowering. Thousands and thousands
of bushels had been left to rot. Our harvest of
pearls here was so large that Winterstein resolved to
go back to 'Frisco at once and market his goods. We
were all tired of fish and biscuits varied by bacon, fiery
with salt and black with age.

" The return trip was just as uneventful as the voyage
out. Winterstein's profits were beyond all his former
experiences. After paying all expenses, giving me my
tenth, and dividing another tenth between the two

K 145

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

mates, he cleared up something like six thousand dollars
for two months' work.

" He was naturally eager to get to sea again, but
there was a difficulty. Rose found that her sister had
left Sacramento, and had come to live in 'Frisco. She
had got work too, I gathered, in a shop, and refused
absolutely to be a schoolgirl any longer, or to accept
her sister's advice. Rose was anxious about her and
resolved to take her on board with us for the next cruise.
But for a long time Miss Daisy refused to come : she
preferred, it appeared, to be entirely on her own, and it
was only when Winterstein joined Rose in solicitation
that she finally consented. I was rather eager to see
this very self-willed and independent young lady.

" I was quite ready for another trip. It would please
my mother, I thought, if I went back with a couple of
thousand dollars in my pocket, and I had got my black
pearls strung as a necklace for Rose.

" Winterstein warned me that the next trip would
perhaps not be so profitable, as he would leave out the
chief places, which he had already touched at, and go
to the more remote stations. ' Pearling,' he said, ' is
like everything else in life — the easiest work is the best
paid.' His philosophy was not very deep though his
observation was exact enough.

" We arranged to start one afternoon. I had been in
town making purchases. It was wretched weather.
A nor'easter had sprung up and blew sand through
the streets in clouds. I only hoped that the departure

146

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

would be postponed. I found Winters! cin waiting im-
patiently for me, and his wife's sister, too, was on deck,
in spite of the rough weather. Winterstein introduced
me to her. Daisy O'Connor did not make much im-
pression on me at first ; she was girlish-young and did
not seem to be anything like so good-looking as her
sister. True, she had large dark brown eyes and good
features, but she was smaller than Rose, and without
Rose's brilliant colouring or charm of appeal. She
t reated me rather coolly, I thought. Winterstein seemed
to be in a great hurry to get off.

" 4 Why not put off going till to-morrow ? ' I asked.
4 As soon as we get outside she'll duck into it half way
u I > her jib.'

44 4 To-morrow's Friday,' remarked Miss Daisy.
44 4 Surely you're not superstitious ? ' I laughed.
44 4 Yes, I am,' replied the girl, and a peculiar char-
acter of decision came into her face and voice.
44 4 You know the old rhyme ? '
44 She questioned me with a look, and I repeated the
old chanty :

* Monday for health
And Tuesday for wealth
And Wednesday the best day of all,
Thursday for losses
And Friday for crosses
And Saturday no day at all.'

Thursday will be a bad start."

44 4 1 like a bad start,' she retorted ; 4 a good start often
means a bad ending.' She spoke bitterly, I thought.

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" ' A resolute little thing,' I said to myself carelessly
while getting into my sea-togs.

44 In five minutes the anchor was up and the sails set
and we were beating out to sea in the teeth of the gale.
In the bay the wind came in gusts, but as we held
towards Lime Point it settled down to a steady drive
which heeled us over till the lee-scuppers were under
water. Every moment it blew harder. When we went
about and opened out the Golden Gate the Rose went
over, over, till it looked as if she would turn turtle. I
laid hold of the main rigging to keep my feet and get
the spindrift out of my eyes. Ten feet from me was the
girl with one hand on a stay, her slight figure braced
against the gale evidently enjoying the experience. A
different voyage from the first, I thought to myself,
and under different auspices. But the work and
danger stopped thought. As soon as we were out of the
Golden Gate and clear of Point Bonita the sea began to
pile up and break in masses on the bar. We were in
for a dirty night. In five minutes we were all wet to
the skin. The girl had gone below. The companion,
skylights and hatches were all battened down and made
snug, and not a moment too soon. The sea on the bar
was terrific : again and again the green water buried
the decks, but as soon as we had got outside and
turned her bows southward the gale came fair on
the quarter, and the little " saucer," as I called the
Rose, made good weather of it, lifting easily to the
great combers and swooping along their shoulders

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

into the night, for all the world like some white
sea-bird.

"The coming on hoard of Daisy O'Connor altered
everything. I was too young at the time to explain or
even understand what was taking place. The interest
which used to centre in Rose and Winterstein, and
abaft the companion, now followed Daisy all over the
ship. For I he girl was never long in one place and
divided her favours impartially among all the men on
board. Now she walked his watch talking to Donkin
or leaned against the rail chatting to Crawford, or sat
discussing a book with me. She was less with Winter-
stein than with any of us, which was not remarked, be-
cause the weather still continued boisterous, and gave
him a good deal to do, between the state-room in which
his wife spent most of her time and the wave-swept
deck.

" In every way this cruise was different from the first,
less pleasant, if more exciting. The first thing I noticed
was that Donkin. who appeared to like Winterstein on
the first voyage, now disliked him. Winterstein spoke
sharply to him one day about the way the jib was sitting.

44 4 That jib's shivering,' he said, 4 it's not set flat ;
take a pull at it.'

" Donkin looked at him and said sulkily :

" 4 That's because she's steered too free.'

4 That's all you know about it,' replied Winterstein
cheer fully : * at any rate take a pull at the sheet.'

" The look of contempt and anger which Donkin

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

threw at the skipper surprised and shocked me. I did
not even then notice that Daisy was standing to wind-
ward, almost between them. It only occurred to me
long afterwards. The Rose, which had been the most
comfortable craft in the world, had become an ordinary
sort of vessel.

" The weather was very unsettled ; usually we had
more than enough wind and a heavy lop of sea, and the
little craft, which was very light, and shallow as a saucer,
tossed about like a cork.

" Three days out of four Rose O'Connor kept to her
berth, and never showed at all even at meal-times, and
Daisy O'Connor took her place on the deck and in the
cabin as well. Day after day Winterstein and I lunched
with her alone. The door leading into Rose's state-room
was generally closed. It was impossible not to be
interested in Daisy. She was very intelligent and self-
centred, and as reserved as Rose was ingenuous and
open. She struck me as being much older than Rose.
She was a sort of enigma, and I could not help wanting to
find the key to it. She never praised or complimented
one as Rose did ; her praise was a word or two which
seemed wrung from her — a tantalising, proud creature.

" One day we were running along under some bluffs;
the wind was light and fitful : we had all the plain sails
set. Rose was on deck, seated in a cane arm-chair to
windward of the companion. Winterstein was a con-
summate seaman, and that day seemed a little anxious :
he kept running down to look at the barometer, and had

150

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

a word or two with Crawford, I reim-mln-red afterwards.
Neither of them seemed to like the look of the weather.
I paid small attention to externals, for Daisy was
walking Hie deck with me and I was telling her how I
intended to put up my shingle in New York that winter
and start my law office. She was looking her very best
and I had begun to wonder whether she was not even
more attractive than her sister. When she got excited,
or when the wind blew a little sharply, her white skin
would take on the faint pinky tinge of a sea-shell, and
when interested her eyes would grow large and deepen
in colour ; altogether I was beginning to think her
fascinating. Unconsciously I was transferring to her
my old allegiance to Rose. Rose was not at her best
.this cruise ; she looked washed out and pale : she did
what she could, but the bad weather was against her.
Clearly the spiritual centre of gravity, so to speak, of the
vessel had changed and I certainly was not blind to the
fact that Daisy gave me more of her time than she gave
to anyone else, though she would often have long talks
w i t h 1 ) o n k i n . The person she spent least time with was
distinctly Winterstein.

" While we were walking up and down talking the
wind suddenly ceased, and the little craft shot up at once
on an even keel and set Rose's chair sliding. It was
stopped In Winterstein, who took his wife below, and
as we resumed our walk again I noticed that the look
Daisy threw at her sister was more than indifferent;
there was contempt in it. In a minute or two Winter-

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

stein came up again and stood near the main sheet, and
every now and then we passed him. The wind was
blowing again steadily, and the schooner heeled over
under it and all went on as before. Suddenly, without
any warning the wind veered round, and blew from
almost the opposite point of the compass. With a slash
and crash the sails came flapping over our heads and the
boom smashed inboard as if we were going to jibe. The
deck from slanting jumped level. I caught the com-
panion to hold myself. Daisy was thrown past me, and
would have had a nasty fall but Winterstein caught her
in his arms. She tore herself loose angrily, and he
sprang to the mainsheet and drew it taut, and stopped
the boom from going over. The helmsman, Crawford,
had been almost as quick. No sooner had the squall
struck us than he put the helm up, and the next moment
the Rose's bow fell off and her sails filled again, and she
went on as before. In the nick of time Winterstein
eased away the mainsail.

" The fine thing in the occurrence was Winterstein' s
extraordinary speed and strength. There he stood,
holding the main-sheet, his magnificent athlete's figure
etched against the sky. Before I had taken in his
splendid unconscious pose, Daisy made an inarticulate
exclamation as if she had caught her breath ; but when
I looked at her her face was as composed as usual and
without expression.

" I thought at the time that the weather was chiefly
responsible for the change in the moral atmosphere.

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

It is impossible to be good-tempered if you are
through by day and up half the night shortening sail,
or ready to shorten it. For the schooner after all was
only a small craft, and heavily sparred even for summer
w rather. The sails, it was evident, were too big for her,
though Winterstein declared he had never seen such
weather in September. I had never had harder work.
Three days out of the four we worked all day long and
half through the night. The little craft was under-
manned. And, though we were all strong, five or six
pairs of hands cannot do the work of ten or twelve, and
no man can be in two places at once. Our tempers
began to get ragged.

44 On the first trip Crawford had been a great friend
of mine ; he was really a fine sailor and intelligent
besides, and whenever I wanted to know anything I
used to go and talk with him, and even in 'Frisco I took
him out v/ith me to the theatre once or twice, and was
very much amused by his shrewd comments. But
one day he called me to help him hauling in the jib.

" 4 Bear a hand, damn you,' he cried. I was amazed.

44 4 What's the matter, Crawford ? ' I said after-
wards, but he turned on his heel and muttered some-
thing about 4 lazy ' in such a tone that I replied :

44 4 Lazy or not, you had better curse someone else.'

44 But afterwards in cool blood I could not help asking
myself what it all meant. I could find no reason for
Crawford's change of manner. 4 Lazy ' stuck in my
mind. The day before had been fine and I had sat in a

153

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

chair near Daisy, and read Whittier to her, but that
could have nothing to do with Crawford, I decided, who
seemed to me quite old : he must have been nearly
forty.

" The weather made little difference to Daisy. She
was up on deck in all weathers and seemed fairly to revel
in a hard gale. When it was dry she used to wear a tight
knitted thing, like a long blue jersey, which outlined her
slight figure, and when it was wet she would put on a
waterproof and tuck her hair inside a close hood which
seemed to frame her face lovingly ; I liked her best
when it simply blew hard and we could walk about and
talk.

" About this time I began to notice that Donkin was
trying in his uncouth way to make up to her. He seized
every opportunity of talking to her and advising her.
It was a remark of Crawford's that opened my eyes.
They were standing together chatting one day when
Crawford looked at me over his shoulder and said :

" ' She does not care for him any more than she cares
for the mainmast, but the big fool thinks she does.'

" A pang of surprise and anger told me that I cared
more than I admitted to myself. The idea of Donkin,
great, ugly, sullen Donkin, side by side with that beauty
and fine intelligence !

" ' Beauty and the beast,' I said. Crawford looked
at me and turned aside : I realised that I had spoken
bitterly.

" All this time there seemed to be less change in

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

Winters! cin than in any of the rest of us. Day ai'ler
day ami niirht after night he did two or three men's
work, and did not seem to feel fatigue or need sleep,
lie was helped, of course, by his magnificent health and
strength. He appeared to take it as a matter of course
that I should monopolise Daisy, and we talked together
at meal-times almost as if he were not in the cabin.
Our talk was mostly of books and works of art, in which
it was impossible for him to join. He listened, indeed,
but could hardly expect to interest her in books as I
could. Sometimes I read scraps of Shelley or Swinburne
to her and it was a treat to see her face flush and change
with the varying emotions. Her eyes were extraordin-
ary ; they drew the very soul out of one and tempted
one perpetually to more passionate expression. The
talks in the cabin went with us on deck. No one made
me talk like she did. She was something more than a
sympathetic listener. She made one want to draw forth
lu T interest or rare word of praise. But if she showed
intense emotion about a piece of verse or some wonderful
cloud effect her interest was always impersonal. As
soon as the talk became at all sentimental she would
break it off and her eyes would grow inexpressive as
brown stones.

After we had rounded the peninsula and turned into
the Gulf the weather suddenly improved. Day after
day we floated along with a light breeze under a pale
blue sky tremulous with excess of light. Day after
day now Rose came up and we had tea and even dinner

155

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

on deck. But somehow or other Rose never regained
her position ; we liked her, and turned to her, attracted
by her smiling good humour, but the spiritual interest
of the ship was centred in her sister. Everything in
Rose was open, comprehensible, from her flower-like
beauty to her manifest devotion to Winterstein, but
Daisy was a closed book, a tantalising puzzle ; for all
of us she had the charm of the unknown and unexplored.
She entered into no direct competition with her sister :
she simply kept apart as a rival queen, and there could
be no doubt that her court was better attended. You
flattered Rose and paid compliments to her, the other
you studied and sought to interest. Rose was always
more than fair to her sister. In fact she praised her
and made up to her timidly like the rest of us. One
day Winterstein had gone down for a pair of loose boots
for his wife, as she wanted to walk. While he put the
boots on we naturally talked of feet. I praised Rose's
feet. But she would not have it.

" 4 My feet are huge,' she said, ' in comparison to
Daisy's. I take fours and she takes ones, don't you,
Daisy ? Show them.'

" Daisy looked at her with a little smile, but did not
follow her advice.

" ' Come, Daisy, show us,' I said.

" She turned smiling inscrutable eyes on me and that
was all. Suddenly Winterstein laughed.

" ' Daisy wants to spare us,' he said. Her face
hardened.

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

44 4 Daisy docs not think it a matter of any moment,'
she said, 4 but if you are all agreed, there you are,' and
she pulled her feet together and drew up her skirts de-
liberately, shotting, too, the nervous slight ankles. But
almost at the same moment she sprang to her feet.

44 4 Are you coming ? ' she threw at me, and walked
down the deck.

44 4 What wonderful feet you have,' I said — 4 almost
too tiny for your figure.'

44 4 Why should very small feet and hands be ad-
mired ? ' she said, turning to me.

M I could not give her the answer that came into my
mind and hesitated, seeking some other explanation.

44 4 It's traditional. . . . I hardly know.' I hesitated,
and sprang to knowledge for evasion. 4 All Greek
statues of women have large feet,' I remarked.

44 4 But there must be a reason,' she said, and her eyes
probed mine.

4 Yes,' I replied, feeling annoyed with myself for
getting red. She took it all in coolly and then changed
the conversation. Perhaps she understood more than
she admitted.

44 In the Ciulf we called at various small stations and
did fairly well with the pearls. Rose had given Daisy
my black pearl necklace, I noticed ; it seemed strange
to me that all the affection should be on Rose's
side.

44 The weather got finer and finer ; it became so hot,
indeed, that Wintcrstcin fixed up an awning from the

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

companion to the poop. We used to keep the awning
cool by throwing a couple of buckets of water on it
before Rose came on deck, for she felt the heat
intensely.

" About this time I began to guess that her paleness
and languor had a cause, and we all felt more kindly
towards her, if that were possible. But the fact itself
seemed to set her more and more apart, putting her
outside our circle. The heat seemed to affect Daisy no
more than it affected the rest of us. I used to get up
nearly every morning and bathe, and when there was a
wind Donkin or Crawford used to throw a bucket of
water over me, and I hopped about on the forecastle,
to dry myself. If there was no wind I went overboard,
keeping near the vessel because of the sharks. One
day I had just run up after my bath, I was still drying
my head, when Daisy came on deck.

" ' Oh, how I should like a swim,' she said. 4 I've
been so hot in that stewy cabin.'

" She did not look hot, she was always the picture of
neatness. But Donkin put his oar in at once.

" ' Nothing easier, Miss Daisy.'

" When had he commenced calling her by her
Christian name, I wondered angrily.

" ' Oh, but the sharks,' she said. ' If one were to
bite a foot off, or a hand, I should kill myself. I do
not mind death, but I would not be deformed for
anything.'

" ' We could rig a sail out on the yard so that you

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

could have four feet of water, and \ el IK- j>< rfectly saiV.'
IK- replied.

44 * Oh, how splendid 1 ' she said. 4 I wish you would.'

" 4 In ten minutes, Miss Daisy,' IK- said, and turned
away to the work, Crawford following at his heels.

" 4 1 must go down and get ready,' she said ; 4 but
won't \ .u come in with me ? You won't mind bathing
again ; it will give me courage ? '

44 4 1 have no bathing things,' I said, 4 but I can prob-
ably get a suit ready for to-morrow.'

" 4 What a pity,' she pouted. ' Bathing alone is no
fun. Can't you make something do ? '

" 4 J daresay I can,' I replied.

" 4 Please,' and she disappeared down the companion.

44 1 went below and got myself ready with a loose
flannel shirt and a pair of duck trousers cut off at the
knee, promising myself to hem them round next day.
The ruminating about took me some time, and when
I came on deck Daisy was already waiting and all the
preparations had been made. A yard had been sheered
out from the ship and stayed against the bulwark and
companion. From the end of it a square sail had been
let down by a cross yard at the end of the spar. The
sail dipped into the water and formed a bath of perhaps
twenty feet long, fifteen feet broad and four or live' in
depth. The gangway opened into the middle of it, and
the little ladder led down to the water's edge. When
I came up Daisy was thanking them.

44 4 Did you ever see such a perfect bath ? ' she said,

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

turning to me. ' Isn't it clever of them ? I think you
sailors,' and she looked into Donkin's eyes, 4 can just
do anything.' (The fellow's weather-beaten hide flushed
to brick-red.) ' It was Mr Crawford,' she added, ' who
thought of putting the sail by the gangway. He thinks
of everything.'

" She was diabolically clever ; for the praise was
deserved. Crawford's white face paled and he
fidgeted under her eyes.

Daisy had on a little green cap, into which she had
tucked her hair, and a great bath sheet. Winterstein
came up from below and stood close by.

" ' Will you go first ? ' I said.

" She turned and undid the tapes at her neck, and let
the bath towel slip on to the white deck. She was in
pale green with knickerbockers ; a little tunic cut low
at the neck fell over her hips. Her arms were bare, and
her legs from the knees down. Everything suited her.
She was adorable — girl and woman in one. The next
moment she had slid down the ladder into the sea and
was swimming about. In a moment I joined her, and
then she explained to me that she could never float.

" c My feet always go down,' she said, ' and before I
know it I am standing on my feet upright in the water.'
Again and again she tried to float, but always with the
same result. I wondered if she knew how provocative
she was as she lay there on the blue surface, her little
form in green and white, with the wet dress clinging to
her figure and outlining it. I think she must have

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

known, for there wnv the men leaning down from the
bulwarks, all staring at her with hot eyes. When she
came on deck she did not disappear at once into the
bath cloak which Don kin hold ready for her. She stood
there among the men on deck in her semi-nudity and
cried :

" ' Oh, I have enjoyed myself : it has been perfect.
I am so much obliged to you,' she said, turning to
Doukin, 4 and to you too, Mr Crawford.'

44 1 noticed that Dyer at the helm devoured her with
his ryes, while Abraham's black face grinned from the
fo'castle hatch.

44 4 It was kind of all of you,' she went on ; l the water
was not a bit cold. You will put the sail down to-
morrow morning, won't you ? ' she said to Donkin as
sin stretelud her arms backwards over her head to get
the cloak. The movement threw her little breasts
upwards into sharp relief; the next moment she had
drawn the cloak about her with a little gay laugh and
disappeared down the companion-way. It was as if the
sun had gone out. For a moment we men stared at
each other, and then I went forward to change my
tilings while Donkin andCrawford busied themselves get-
ting in the sail. Suddenly I heard Winterstein's voice :

41 4 Here, you, Abraham, bear a hand with the swab
here and dry up this water. As you've come on deck
you may as well do something.' I turned in surprise,
the tone was strangely hard and menacing, utterly unlike
Winterstein, but I did not catch a glimpse of his face,
L 161

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

for, as soon as he had given the order he turned away to
stare at the land over the poop.

" What was the meaning of it all, I asked myself ; but
I soon put the query out of my head, because I did not
want to dull the vivid image of the girl's beautiful figure
which had been revealed to me. Was anyone else as
lovely, I asked myself. Her feet were like baby feet.
The marks of sex in her figure was so slight that they
merely accentuated the beauty of the slim round outlines.
What provocation in the crooked girlish arms, what a
challenge in the inscrutable mutinous eyes. She had
been delightful to me in the sea, had turned to me
familiarly for help ; I had touched her firm flesh again
and again, and I was intoxicated with her as with
wine.

" I did not see Daisy again that morning until lunch-
time, or dinner as we called it. I had fished persistently,
and called out loudly whenever I had the opportunity,
hoping that it would bring her on deck, for she revelled
in fishing, and was easily the champion, because all the
men vied with each other in picking the most attractive
baits for her. In this game Crawford was easily first.
He brought up a piece of red flannel one day, cut into
the shape of a narrow tongue ; on the other side of it
he had sewn a glittering piece of white satin. Equipped
with this bait no one had a chance with Daisy. She
had caught three fish to my one, and as Donkin or
Crawford was always at hand to pull up the wet line for
her and take the hook from the fish and put the bait

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

straight again she had little to do except amuse
herself.

" At lunch she took all my compliments in complete
silence.

44 * You would be able to float,' I insisted, ' if you
would arch your back and keep your head right back.'

44 But she would not have it.

r " 4 I do arch my back and put my head right back,
but my feet pull me upright.'

" * Such tiny feet,' I replied, ' have not the power
to pull anyone down.'

4 You shall try, to-morrow,' she said. 4 1 will keep
as rigid as you please, and you shall put your hand under
my back to see whether I am stiff.'

44 Winterstein suddenly spoke :

44 4 Why don't you put that French thing on, that
knitted thing instead of the tunic ? "*

4 Do you mean the maillot ? ' she said slowly,
looking him straight in the eyes.

44 He nodded. His expression, I remembered after-
wards, was a little strained.

" I have not worn it,' she said, with her eyes on the
cloth, 4 since I bathed at the Cliff House, but, as you
wish it,' she added slowly, 4 1 will put it on,' and she
turned away indifferently. There was a tension in the
air, but not on her side, I thought, as much as on his,
but why ?

44 4 What is the maillot like ? ' I said, showing her that
I knew the French word.

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" ' It's a knitted thing,' she said; 4 all the girls used
to wear them, and little French slippers. You know
we have parties in the baths. I have got all the things
still. I'll put them on to-morrow. I think they suit
me. Some people used to say so,' she added slowly.

" Winterstein got up and went into his wife's bedroom
for something or other. When he returned I was leaving
the cabin. Daisy called to me on the way up that she
would bring Browning with her. She was sensitive
to beauty of words or music, and extraordinarily in-
telligent : I delighted to read her my favourite poems.

" If I were a story-teller I'd try to make all you people
feel what we felt next morning. The weather was per-
fect, the sea like glass : the little schooner seemed to
breathe gently, as if sleeping on the oily swell. Rose
came on deck early, and established herself under
the awning. I thought that her presence would make
a difference, would act as a restraint on her sister, and
I wished her away. I had got my bathing things in
some sort of order the evening before : I rather fancied
myself in them. I had not been on deck more than five
minutes when I noticed a sort of subdued excitement
in everyone. All the men were on deck, and they had
all rigged themselves out more or less. Donkin was
shaved, and so was Crawford ; Dyer limped about in
clean ducks, and Abraham Lincoln had mounted a large
white collar with a scarlet and blue tie. Winterstein
alone had made no change. He talked to his wife while
moving about, whistling for wind as if indifferent.

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

44 For the first time I noticed clearly that Rose was
to become a mother. Her face was a little white and
drawn, and when she tried once or twice to take a few
turns with Winterstein you could see that her figure
had altered in spite of the loose dress she wore. I was
looking over the little lifeboat which we carried on the
davit amidship when I heard Daisy's voice.

" 4 What a perfect day,' she said, 4 and how delightful
\lhing looks ; I know I shall enjoy the bathe.'

44 Naturally I went towards her. She was standing
close to the companion. Rose was sitting a yard or so
behind it, with her chair against the mahogany top.
Everyone was on tiptoe of excitement : Donkin, Craw-
ford, Abraham Lincoln, all moved like steel nibs
towards the magnet, except Winterstein. The girl
had her back to the men. Suddenly she opened her
wrap a little to show herself in her maillot to her sister :
Winterstein and I could not help seeing her as well.
It caught my breath. For one moment I thought she
was naked. The maillot was white ; the meshes of it
showed the rose-coloured skin beneath. She looked
like an ivory statue by some modern French artist ;
she was rounder, more woman-like than I had pictured
her immaturity.

41 4 Oh, Daisy ! ' cried Rose.

44 4 He told me to put it on,' said Daisy defiantly, look-
ing at Winterstein while drawing the cloak about her
again. 4 You used to say it fitted me perfectly,' she
added, 4 and liked me in it.'

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

' Yes,' said Rose amiably, leaning back and closing
her ej^es, as if in pain or weariness, ' it does suit you ;
but somehow or other it was different when half-a-dozen
of you children were all wearing them in the bath ;
besides, you've grown, I suppose, and it's in the open,
and men about . . .'

" ' I'll take it off,' said Daisy in the hard clear voice,
which I had come to recognise as a sign of annoyance.

" ' Oh no,' said Rose. ' I'd bathe in it now I had it
on. Go,' she said, smiling ; ' the dip will do you good.'

" The girl turned and without a word went down into
the cabin. In a minute or two she reappeared.

" ' WiH you go down first ? ' she said to me ; ' and I
will dive in.'

" She stood in the gangway with the shapeless wrap
about her ; I nodded, for my mouth was dry, and with-
out more ado threw myself into the sea, and in a moment
was standing on the sail dashing the water from my eyes.
Daisy opened the wrap slowly, and took her arms out of
the sleeve with a sort of serpentine movement, infinitely
graceful, and provocative. She had put on her little
tunic over the maillot. I was glad the outline was
draped ; but having seen her in the maillot the vision
of her form was still with me in its half -ripe seduction.
But being hidden from the other men it seemed mine
and private. Yet I noticed that Donkin received her
bathing cloak mechanically without taking his eyes off
her. As she stood above me she swayed backwards,
threw her hands above her head, then bent gradually

166

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

forward — down, down, the lines of her flexible young
body changing every moment and let herself glide into
the sea. All the time she stood poised on the deck there
was a steel band of hate round my chest. I do not
think the girl knew what she was doing. I do not
believe she could have imagined the rage of desire her
beauty called to life in those men who had been a month
at sea, eating heartily while breathing in the tonic sea
air. As soon as she was in the water beside me all anger
vanished ; she seemed to belong to me then, and I
wondered whether she liked me to touch her ; at any
rate she was not averse to learning anything I suggested
and naturally I was fertile in suggestions.

" Suddenly she said she would float ; she would arch
her back and put her head back as far as she could,
and I must put my hand under her waist and support
her, then I would see how impossible it was for her to
float. I did what I was told without thinking, and
at first she floated and I looked into her face and
cried :

" 4 You see, you see ! ' But she was not looking at
me ; her face was set hard ; there was a sort of defiance
in it. I followed her glance up and found WintcrsU -in
was leaning over the bulwarks gazing down on her.
I seemed to catch for the moment a sort of tension
between them and then slowly the vase-like outlines of
her hips sank lower and lower into the water, and she
came upright smiling :

" 4 See how my feet drag me down,' she said, pushing

167

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

her right foot up through the water in comic dismay
as if to show me how heavy it was.

Winterstein had left the bulwarks, but Donkin was
looking down at her, and Crawford and the others all
drinking her in with greedy eyes. She swam about a
little, and then climbed up the ladder and stood at the
top of it, half in the hot sunshine, and half in the shade
of the awning — to get warm, she said. My foot was on
the lower rung of the ladder. I was so close to her that
I could see every line of her body, the adorable round-
nesses, and the fine nervous grace of it. I could scarcely
refrain from putting my hands on her as she stood
there swaying just in front of me, with the wet tunic
clinging to her like silk and showing all her adorable
beauties.

" ' It is too delicious,' she said, with a little shudder ;
4 the water is warmer than the air. The air makes me
shiver, but the water is warm like new milk. You
should come and bathe too, Rose.5

" ' Put on your wrap and change quickly, or you'll
catch cold," said Rose ; she spoke a little tartly, I
thought.

" The girl turned and let Donkin wrap the bathing
cloak about her without a word. I caught sight of her
as she turned, and the vision of her is with me still.
I've wondered since if there ever was a more perfect
figure, or if anyone else could be so slim, with such tiny
round breasts no larger than apples. I can still see the
dimples in her arms at the elbow and the drops of water

168

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

diamonding the rosy skin as she lifted up her arms to
take the cloak which Donkin \\as holding.

44 The rest of the day passed in a sort of stupor.
Rose was on deck nearly the whole time, Winterstein
always in attendance. Daisy and I walked the deck a
good while together ; I got her to say she liked me, but
when I pressed her to say how much she only laughed
and changed the subject. She had a long talk with
Donkin and another talk with Crawford ; she even
managed to smile at Dyer and transport him into the
seventh heaven of delight. I began for the first time
to realise her vanity ; she wanted all men to admire
her. I raged against her in my heart, raged the more
because I was in the toils. I would have given ten years
of my life to have been able to have taken that slight
figure in my arms and crushed those little breasts against
mine and kissed the flower of her mouth.

41 But of all this she seemed unconscious, she was
simply herself, quiet, aloof, and inscrutable till late in
the afternoon, when a little breeze sprang up, a land
breeze which gave the light schooner three or four
knots an hour — good steering way. Then she had the
lines up and fished from the poop. Donkin and myself
waited on her, while Winterstein walked up and down
beside his wife from the poop to the companion, and from
the companion to the poop in silence. Dyer steered and
Abraham Lincoln came grinning to us every now and
then to bring fresh bait for Missy DaN

169

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

';The catastrophe came with startling suddenness.
I see now that it must have come, that it was all pre-
pared, inevitable. Yet the unexpectedness of it and the
tragic completeness were overwhelming. It seems to
have blotted out all that went before, so that I do not
know whether it was two or three days or half-a-dozen
days later than the bathing or not. Anyhow the
bathing I have described was the last. For some days
after we had lively breezes, and had called, I remember,
at Mulege near Los Coyotes, and had had a good haul
of pearls and a lot of hard work. The spar had been
taken in and the extemporised bath dismantled.

" One afternoon we had been working hard and had
had to row the boat for four or five miles over shallow
water to a village where the inhabitants, we found, had
collected pearls for years and years and had never
before been visited. The bargaining was interminable.
The fisherfolk had no standard of value. One man
wanted a dollar for three or four fine pearls, another
wanted fifty dollars for an insignificant bad specimen,
and we were on the strain all day persuading and
cajoling : I was tuckered out when I got into the boat
and took the bow oar to Donkin's stroke, while Winter-
stein sat in the stern sheets. I think Winterstein, too,
must have been tired and exasperated, for he scarcely
spoke all the way.

" When we got on board the schooner a six -knot
breeze was blowing. After telling us to keep our course
Winterstein went below. I went down too and had

170

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

a sleep : when I came up again I felt refreshed and
vigorous.

41 The night was wonderfully beautiful. The moon
rose like a crimson wafer through a thin heat mist
but soon shook herself clear of her trailing garments,
and walked the purple like a queen. I noticed for the
first time that the moon's radiance lent the edges of
the nearer clouds a brownish smoky-rose tinge. As the
night wore on the fleecy round clouds gathered closer
together like silver shields and hung heavily against the
blue vault ; the moonlight grew fitful.

" When I went down Daisy and Winterstein were
both on deck. They were standing near each other just
by the poop. When I came up after having had a
cup of coffee and a biscuit they were still talking at
intervals. She was sitting on the companion while he
stood in front of her or moved away and then came back.
I went forward to do something, and when I returned
they were still talking, which seemed strange to me, for
they seldom exchanged more than a word or two.
Every now and then she laughed, the laugh was hard
and clear — she was scornful, I thought. They seemed
so preoccupied that I kept away from them. Abraham
Lincoln at the tiller was almost out of earshot. I
suppose I was jealous : I noticed that when the moon
came out from the darkening clouds they were at some
distance apart, but as soon as the light was veiled they
seemed close together again. I was furious ; my pride
prevented me going near them, yet I could not but

171

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

stare towards them at intervals, jealously watchful.
Suddenly while I was a little to windward, just in line
with the helmsman, the moon came out, and I saw
Winterstein take Daisy's head quickly in his hands and
kiss her on the lips : my heart stopped. The moon
showed everything as if it were daylight. I took a
quick step forward, when just as suddenly I became
aware that Rose had come out of the companion and
seen her husband kissing her sister.

" For a moment she stood petrified : I heard a faint
exclamation, or was it merely her breath caught in a
gasp and strangled. She turned and moved across the
deck with her hand across her face. She struck the low
bulwark and there was a splash in the water. The next
moment Winterstein had sprung to the side and plunged
in after her. The second splash seemed only a couple
of seconds behind the first. I jumped to the helm
only just in time ; for the darky had let it slip from
his hands and was staring round where Winterstein
had disappeared. I crammed the tiller hard down,
shouting :

44 4 Man overboard ! Man overboard ! '

" The next moment Crawford sprang on deck. The
little schooner was fluttering in the wind : she came
about with a jerk just as Crawford and the darky
dropped over the side into the dinghy and began rowing
back.

44 4 What is it ? ' cried Donkin, running aft.

44 Mrs Winterstein fell overboard and Winterstein

172

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

went after her. How long shall we take to get back, do
you think ? '

4 In a quarter of a mile,' he replied, while loosening
a lifebuoy.

44 4 Then we must pick them up ? ' I said.

44 4 Of course,' he answered. 1 1 guess Winterstein's
a good swimmer.'

44 4 First-rate,' I replied, but my heart was hurting
with fear.

44 At this moment Daisy passed across my line of
vision going to the bulwarks to look ahead. The moon
was full out and the light quite strong again. 1 looked
at her face and it seemed as if she were excited, ex-
pectant, resolute, no trace of horror or fear. I gasped,
and suspicion came to me. Could it be that she had
wished for it ? Her sister — it was impossible.

44 Two minutes more and we were alongside the boat
again. Crawford had everything ready as usual and
had gone to the very spot, and as we came up in the
wind beside the boat I left the helm to the nigger and
leaned over the bulwarks. I was just in time to see
Winterstein come to the surface and haul himself up by
the stern of the boat.

44 He stood there poised for a moment, and then
hurled himself into the sea again as if he would go to the
very bottom. My heart sank : he had not found her
yet.

44 1 called to Crawford to know if he had seen any
trace of Rose.

173

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" ' No sign,' he replied, 4 and this is the skipper's
fourth or fifth dive. I guess it's no good."

" 4 1 think you ought to come into the boat,' he said
a moment later, c and get Winterstein to come on board.
He'll kill himself with this diving ; I've never known a
man keep down so long ; he can't do it again.'

" I jumped into the boat, and a couple of strokes took
us to the spot where Winterstein had disappeared. We
stared down at the dark surface, but there was not a
sign or a sound. It seemed incredible that any man
should be able to stay under so long.

" Suddenly Crawford cried : ' There he is,' and
gave a couple of quick strokes with his oar : slowly
the body came to the surface. As we caught hold of
him we saw that the blood was streaming from his nose
and mouth and ears.

" 'He's killed himself,' said Crawford. ' I thought
he would.'

" We got back to the schooner in a moment and
lifted Winterstein on board.

" As I was helping to carry him towards the com-
panion, with his head in my hands, Daisy caught hold
of me :

" 4 Dead ? ' she cried, wild eyes in the white face.

" ' I don't think so,' I replied. ' He stayed under
too long. We must get him downstairs and bring him
to.'

" ' Ah ! ' she said, and let my arm go.

" We carried Winterstein down to the cabin, turned

174

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

him over, and poured the water out of him. After-
wards I blew whisky up his nose and poured some
down his throat, and in a few minutes he revived.

" 4 Where is she ? ' he said, struggling to rise. * Have
you got her ? '

" ' It's no good, skipper,' cried Crawford, holding
him down. ' We did our best. You did all one man
could. She must have gone straight down. There are
no signs.'

" 1 1 must find her,' he said, struggling up. But
he was too weak, he fell back fainting.

11 1 do not know how the hours passed. I felt as if
I had been struck on the head with a hammer ; it was
all incredible to me. I could not believe that Rose was
dead, drowned, that I should never see her again, that
charming woman with her appealing affectionate soul.
It was too awful to realise. I thought I'd wake up
and find it all a bad dream. Suddenly I noticed that
my legs were cold ; I put my hand down, my trousers
were dripping wet from carrying Winterstein. The
next moment I became conscious that I was dead tired,
drunk tired, my eyes were closing of themselves. In-
stinctively I turned into the fo'castle, stretched myself
on the lockers and slept. . . .

" When I awoke I did not know where I was ; every-
thing was strange to me. Then I remembered, and wit h
the remembrance came the iron band about my chest,
constricting my heart. I got up and went on deck. No
change there. The schooner was just drawing through

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

the water, the sun shining ; the light dancing on the
wavelets ; the air like wine. Dyer was at the helm.
If only last night could have been blotted out ? I
could scarcely believe it was real. As I went aft,
Crawford met me :

" ' How's Winterstein ? ' I asked.

" 4 Sleeping now,' he replied, ' but he's been mighty
bad. I never saw a man so tuckered out — never.
How did it happen ? How did his wife go overboard ?
You saw it,' and his eyes probed mine.

" ' She came out of the companion,' I said ; 4 the
deck was on a bit of a slant ... it all happened so
quickly.' I felt myself flushing. I was angry with my
hesitation.

" ' But why did she ? How did she sink like that ?
It's mighty curious,' he added suspiciously.

" 4 Have you seen Miss Daisy,' I asked, to change the
current of his thought.

" ' Miss Daisy,' he repeated, emphasising the Miss,
so that I noticed how strange it was for me to use the
formal courtesy, ' Miss Daisy ain't been up yet. The
nigger thinks 'twas jealousy between the two sisters ;
but he saw nothing. You must have seen ? '

" I had had time to recover myself, and choose a
better way of putting him off the scent :

"'It's awful, awful,' I said, as if to myself. 'I
can't understand it.' Crawford grunted, still sus-
picious.

44 But in spite of the tragedy, the suspicions, and the

176

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

dark cloud of fear that hung over me as to what might
happen next, the ordinary routine of life went on—-
luckily for iill < >f us. A little later Abe called to me from
the fo' castle to come and have a cup of coffee. I found
I was very hungry, and after breakfast felt much better,
more hopeful, I mean, and fitter to meet whatever might
occur.

" Half-an-hour later, Crawford was at the helm steer-
ing ; I was standing near the foremast when suddenly
Daisy came out of the companion and spoke to Crawford
in passing. He replied in a monosyllable, without the
usual greeting, and then stared up at the mainsail as
if there was nothing more to be said. The instinctive
Puritanism of the race spoke in his awkward rude rebuff.
I saw the colour flood her cheeks and then ebb away.
I loathed the man ; I could have beaten him for his
insolence ; yet I was glad he had insulted her : why ?
She deserved it all and more, I thought hotly — and yet
• — she walked up the slanting deck, her little figure
thrown back proudly. I crossed to windward between
the masts to cut her off : why ? I don't know. I only
know that passion was in me : she seemed so far away
from us all with that level, unseeing, unwavering glance ;
the1 proud aloofness attracted me : I had never before
understood the fascination of her personality, of her
courage. When we met she stopped and her eyes held
me.

44 4 1 know you never meant it, Daisy," I said lamely,
and held out both my hands to her.
M 177

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" ' Are you sure ? ' she replied, her eyes searching
hard. The tone shocked me. I did not realise that,
having just been insulted, she was all mistrust and anger :
ah, if only I had said the right word ; but her pride
angered me and for the moment I took her question that
may have only been doubt of me for an admission of
guilt. Fool that I was!

" ' God,' I exclaimed violently, and stepped back.
Her face hardened and she swept past me without
another word or look, leaving me there confused, angry,
wild and, back of all, full of forgiveness — of admiration.

" I could not but dread the first meeting with Winter-
stein. What would he say ? How would he take it all ?
I had not much time to let imagination wander. As I
turned in my walk, he was there. His appearance was
shocking ; it wasn't only that he was white and seemed
ill ; his clothes hung on him ; he was shrunken and his
eyes were bad to look upon — despairing — sad at one
moment, the next hot in self-anger and exasperation.

" I went to him at once, my heart full of pity. I saw
he was all broken.

" ' I'm glad you're up,' I cried cordially ; ' the air'll
do you good.'

" He looked at me with such dumb misery in the
glance that my eyes pricked, nodded his head twice or
thrice and then went over to the low poop and sat down.

" A little later Dyer went to him and said breakfast
was ready. He shook his head merely, and sat on gazing
moodily at the water.

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

"The same thing happened at dinner-time, but wlu-n
pressed to eat by Crawford he replied : 4 'Twould choke
me : I'm all right.'

44 The sweet old routine of life had done me good, so
I thought it would do good to everyone and should be
kept up ; accordingly I went to dinner in the cabin as
usual. As Daisy did not appear I knocked at her state-
room door and asked her to come. A minute or so later
she entered quietly, but she hardly ate anything and
spoke not at all. At supper it was the same thing.

" Winterstein sat on the poop till far into the night.
When Crawford came on watch I took Winterstein
below : he said merely : 4 1 sha'n't sleep,' but threw
himself on the cabin sofa without undressing.

44 The next day passed in the same way, but before
dinner Crawford told me that he could not get Winter-
stein to take anything.

44 4If he doesn't eat, he'll go crazy,' he said. 'He's
just eatin' himself.'

44 1 told this to Daisy. She looked at me with set
face.

44 4 1 have no influence,' she said slowly, as if speaking
to herself — 4 no influence ; but I'll try.' Her face went
white as she spoke. I nodded and went with her up
the companion-ladder. But Winterstein didn't yield
at first to her asking ; he shook his head, merely saying,
' I can't.'

44 4 The soup will help you,' she said, and then slowly :
4 Rose would wish you to take it ! '

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" ' O God ! ' he cried, starting up and stretching
out his arms, as if he couldn't bear to hear the name —
and then sank down again. She put the cup in his
hands and he took it and drank, and then relapsed
again into his moody brooding silence.

When she returned she went straight to her cabin,
and so another day went by.

" The next day Winter stein took some soup I brought
him. In the evening Crawford proposed to return at
once to 'Frisco.

" ' I don't like his looks,' he said ; ' he's worrying him-
self mad, and I guess the sooner we all get away from
each other the better ; perhaps we'll be able to forget
the whole derned thing then and live again.'

" Donkin agreed with him, and so did I, and the ship's
course was altered.

" Daisy got into the way of walking the deck with
Donkin. He adored the very planks she trod on and
perhaps that touched her. Anyway she was with him
now more than with any of us. It made me angry and
scornful, kept my jealousy alive, prevented me from
understanding her or forgiving — I always saw the two
heads together and the fatal kiss.

" In this puzzling world mistakes or blunders have
often worse results than crimes. The momentary
yielding to passion brought the tragedy and the first
tragedy quickly brought another.

" We had got into the equatorial current and were

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

making fine time up the coast towards 'Frisco. The
weather was just what sailors like : a fair wind, perfectly
steady day after day ; bright skies, and blue seas with
scarcely a white horse to be seen. We did not alter
the set of the canvas for days together : there was
nothing for us to do, unfortunately. Unfortunately
nothing to take our minds off the tragedy, nothing to
change the feeling of misery and apprehension. I never
passed such miserable days : they seem like a nightmare
to me still.

44 One morning I heard a row on deck and then what
sounded like a shot. I threw a coat on and ran quickly
up the companion. To my astonishment there was no
one steering, the helm was lashed amidship. I heard a
shout from overhead and saw Donkin and Crawford in
the main rigging near the heel of the topmast. The
next moment I noticed Winterstein seated on deck
between the two masts. He was playing with a dead
snapper, making believe that it was about to bite him,
drawing his hand away quickly from the dead mouth
with a cackle of amusement.

44 ' Good God ! ' I wondered, 4 what's the matter ? '
As I went towards him, it suddenly came to me. 4 He's
mad,' I said to myself. I was all broken up with pity.

44 The men in the rigging shouted 4 Look out ' just
in time to put me on my guard ; for Winterstein had a
revolver beside him, and as soon as I came within his
line of vision he took up the gun and levelled it at me,
crying :

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" ' There's another of them,' and fired without more
ado.

" I called to him and backed away, but as he was
preparing to fire again I slid across the deck to the lee
rigging and went up as fast as I could. Neither Donkin
nor Crawford had anything new to tell me, except that
Crawford had been slightly wounded by the first shot
Winterstein had fired at him. It had just touched the
right shoulder.

" ' It burns a bit,' he said, ' though it's not much
more than skin deep.'

" The nigger and Dyer, it appeared, had both fled to
the fo'castle. We quickly resolved that the moment
Winterstein went down below, one of us should seize
him and the others tie him up.

" ' If I could only get him away from his gun,' said
Donkin, ' I'd find out in five minutes whether he's as
strong as he thinks himself.'

" ' You'll find out how strong he is soon enough,' I
replied. ' He's about the best man with his hands I
ever saw. It will be all the three of us can do to get
the better of him.'

" ' I've never seen the man yet,' said Donkin sturdily,
4 1 was afraid of.'

" The trial came very soon. All of a sudden Winter-
stein stood up and threw the dogfish overboard and,
leaving his revolver on deck, quickly walked aft, and
disappeared down the companion. The next moment
we slid down to the deck ; Crawford armed himself

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

with an iron belaying pin, a fearsome club at close
quarters : I crept stealthily along the weather bulwarks
to the companion and Donkin strode boldly down the
deck. I think it must have been Donkin's heavy step
that Winterstein heard ; for just before I got to the com-
panion he passed up it like a flash and stood facing him.

" 4 Ho ! ho ! ' he cried, laughing. 4 Mr Donkin wants
some gruel, does he ? Take it, take it, then ' ; and
jumping in as lightly as a ballet dancer, he struck out
right and left. His left caught Donkin in the face and
the blood spurted as if the man had been hit with a
hammer, the second blow caught him on the neck and
hurled him down.

41 c Ho ! ho ! ' cried the madman again, dancing about
so as to face Crawford : t Mr Crawford wants some too.'

" Fortunately for Crawford, Donkin was a very strong
man, and scarcely had be been knocked down when he
picked himself up again. He was angry, too, and his
anger did him no good. With his head down like a bull
he rushed at the skipper. Winterstein side-stepped him
to windward and as he passed caught him with a left-
handed shot under the ear with such force that Donkin
seemed to touch nothing till he crashed into the lee
bulwarks and lay there quiet enough. My chance had
come : Winterstein was within a yard of me. As he
struck Donkin I threw my arms about his waist from
behind, pinning his right arm to his side. At the same
time with the instinct of the wrestler I lifted him from
the deck so as to make him as helpless as possible. For

183

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

a moment he struggled wildly, roaring like a bull ; then
in a second broke my grip and got his right hand free.
But I still held him and, as I was well behind him, he
could not get at me easily. But he was too strong.
The next moment his right hand had caught my collar
and shifted to my neck and ear, and I felt myself being
dragged round. I knew that the struggle could only
last a second or two, and just as I was expecting his blow
I heard a thud ; the writhing form in my arms grew still
and heavy and slid down on the deck. Crawford had
run across and struck Winterstein on the temple with
the iron belaying pin. Almost at the same moment
Dyer and Abraham Lincoln ran up on deck. We
hauled Donkin up out of the lee-scuppers and told Dyer
to throw water over him. We then wiped Winter stein's
bleeding head and carried him down below to his
berth where we tied his hands and feet. Just after we
had laid him out Daisy came out of her little state-room.
She looked at us and in a phrase or two Crawford flung
the tragedy at her. She did not seem to notice the man.
She came straight to Winterstein.

" ' Leave him to me,' she said imperiously, kneeling
down beside him.
>•• • « . • •

" The second tragedy seemed to fall on numbed
senses. I scarcely remember any sequence, of time in
what occurred afterwards. I know it soon came on to
blow, but whether it was that day or the next, or later,
I could not tell. I remember that Winterstein appeared

184

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

on deck again and sat in his old place on the poop, gazing
out over the sea. His madness seemed to have left him,
but his brooding silence now was often broken by fits
of talk during which he moved about muttering to
himself incessantly. Crawford said he was talking of
his wife, or to her. He was tragic, terrible — a figure of
despair !

" We had altered our course again and were steering
nor '-west. The nor '-east wind had grown to a gale, while
the current was running strong under our fore-foot.
Between the tide and the wind the sea grew into hillocks
and hills, and still it blew harder and harder.

44 Long ago we had taken all the sails off her, leaving
only a storm jib and a rag of tarpaulin in the mainmast
rigging aft, and under these two handkerchiefs the
schooner lay over so that her masts were near the water.

44 Late in the afternoon Crawford asked me to keep a
sharp look-out.

44 4 'Frisco ? ' I asked, and he nodded.

44 1 never was so glad of anything in my life, the band
round my chest seemed to loosen.

44 The sun was going down in a sort of yellow glare.
For over an hour or so Winterstein had been standing
by the tarpaulin in the mainmast rigging staring over
the Waste of water. I clawed my way aft to him. The
tarpaulin sheltered us from the fury of the wind and
made an oasis of quiet in the uproar.

44 ' We'll soon be in 'Frisco,' I cried.

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" He looked at me with unseeing, hopeless eyes ; my
heart turned to water. Suddenly he caught me by the
shoulder.

"'I can't stand it,' he said, as if confiding in me, but
in a tone so low I could hardly hear him; 'I can't
stand it.'

" 4 Time,' I said, 4 will soften the pain.' The words
rang false even to me.

" ' No, no,' he shook his head. ' It gets worse. If
it had been an accident, I might have stood it : if some-
one else had done it ; perhaps ; but I did it, / : that's
the thorn that festers and stings and burns, and gets
worse not better, worse all the time. ... I was glad to
go mad : I wish I could go mad again and not think
of it all the time,' and he passed his hand over his fore-
head in weary wretchedness.

" ' If I hadn't loved her so I might sleep now and
then and forget. I never cared for any other woman ;
she was perfect to me from the beginning. Hell ! ' he
broke off, raging, ' what sort of a fool was I — eh ?
Was there ever such a fool — a damned fool — damned.
, . . I don't know why I did it ; it just took me at the
moment. Hell ! ' and his eyes were wild. 4 I'm not
fit to live ; this world's no place for fools,' and he
laughed mirthlessly.

44 ' I can't stand it ; I just can't stand it. Oh, my
sweet ; fancy hurting you ! . . .

" ' Is there any other life, eh ? ' I could not answer
— my heart ached for him. ' I never took much stock

186

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

in it; but I'll soon know. So long!' And he turned
into the force of the wind and strode aft. Even then
I noticed that he could walk the deck in the gale that
seemed to blow my breath down my throat and choke
me.

41 1 clawed my way forward again. Winterstein was
beyond my help. I was glad of the gale and the wild
seas and the danger. I didn't want to think. I was
filled with pain. . . .

" The wind came harder and harder. The tremend-
ous weight of it seemed to flatten the sea, and you could
only put your head above the bulwarks if you held on
with both hands.

" All that night Crawford stuck to the helm, and it
needed all his seamanship to bring us through the storm.

"At twelve o'clock we lifted the light and a little
later we got a little under the shelter of the land, and
the sea was not so bad. But the bar gave us an awful
half-hour. The little schooner came out of the broken
water with decks swept clean : the boat had gone and
all the bulwarks, and the Rose was leaking in a dozen
places ; she would never go to sea again.

" When we came to anchor off Meiggs's wharf about
three o'clock we had all had enough of it. In spite of
the fear that the schooner might founder under us,
and though I was frozen cold and wet, I went below and
slept without turning in. I had not had a wink for two
nights and had eaten nothing but a biscuit for thirty-
six hours.

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

" Crawford woke me ; bright sunshine fell down the
hatchway : as soon as I opened my eyes I knew some-
thing was wrong :

" ' What is it ? ' I cried.

" ' Winter stein went overboard in the night,' he said.
' I don't know when. And the girl's been in faint after
faint. Donkin's going to take her up to the house.
I guess you had better get up, she may want to see you.
But don't say anything harsh to her : she's had it bad
enough. . . .'

" I was on deck in five minutes, in time to see Donkin
bring Daisy out of the companion and take her across
to the ladder. He fairly lifted her into the boat, and as
he turned to row her ashore I caught a glimpse of her
face. It made me gasp. I never saw such a change,
never. Her face had gone quite small like a little child's
and as white as if it had been made out of snow. . . .

" I could not stop on board the schooner ; I guess
everybody left it as soon as he could. I came east the
same week and never saw any of 'em again.

" A pretty bad story, ain't it ? A brute of a story.
Just like life. No meaning in it : the punishment out
of all proportion to the sin. Sometimes it's like that.
Sometimes things a thousand times worse go unpunished
and then for a little mistake, or slip, tragedy piles itself
on tragedy. There ain't no meaning in it, no sense.
I don't believe there's any purpose either, anywhere ;

it's just chance " And the Judge broke off.

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A DAUGHTER OF EVE

The dreadful story had held us ; now some of the men
stretched themselves, others lit cigars or took drinks,
but no one spoke for quite a while.

Suddenly Charlie Railton said :

44 That Daisy was a wild piece, sure ; but I thought
you were going to tell us something about Mrs Amory,
Judge; I thought perhaps you knew her."

44 1 knew a good deal about her," replied Barnett
quietly, 44 though I never met her. I was mixed up in
her affairs after her husband died. I was agent for the
land she bought for almshouses. I let her have it
cheaper because of the object.

44 1 ought to have met her a dozen times, but I never
did, strange to say. Of course I knew all about her for
the last two or three years. I knew she was a mighty
good woman, her lawyer, Hutchins, whom 1 knew well,
always said so, said she was the best woman he ever saw,
and one of the kindest. Amory just worshipped her,
I believe, and she brought up his daughters by his first
wife splendidly. She had only one child of her own,
and it died. It nearly killed her, Hutchins said. A
mighty good woman, and I ought to have met her a
dozen times, but it never happened so. ...

44 When she died Hutchins insisted that I should go
to the funeral. You know the house. I guess it's one
of the finest in the States. They laid her out in the
music-room. It looks like a church, with its high
painted windows and old tapestries and open timber
roof : the paintings are all masterpieces ; three or four

189

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

Rembrandts, I believe. Well, they did the room up as
a chapelle ardente, and laid her out there in state, and all
Philadelphia went to visit her, and a good many of her
girls cried over her. I went with Hutchins and nothing
would do but he would have me go right up to the
coffin. The moment I looked at her, the moment I saw
her face, the little face no bigger than your hand, all
frozen white, I knew her. That was the face I had
seen in the boat when Donkin rowed her ashore thirty
years before — ' Jezebel's daughter,' as I used to call her
to myself. . . .

" I was just struck dumb, but I knew that was why I
had never met her. She had not wanted to meet me.
I was not a bit surprised when two or three days later
I had a letter from her. Hutchins had to read the
will, and in it he found a letter addressed to me. I have
not got it by me, but I can tell you some of what was
in it ; she had no reason to be ashamed of it. I was
wrong to judge her as I did at the time. Young people
are mighty severe in their judgings. As you get older
you get more tolerant. . . .

" With the letter there was a little box, and in the
box a string of black pearls, the same I had given her
sister. Mrs Amory began by telling me that she had
wanted to give them back to me as soon as Donkin had
told her they were mine, but all trace of me had been
lost, and she had never heard of me again till long after
her husband's death, when the end was near. She asked
me to give the black pearls to my eldest daughter Kate,

190

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

and she left me a string of white ones to give to my
youngest daughter. She seemed to know all about us.
. . . She told me I had always misjudged her and I
guess I had. . . .

44 Winterstein, it appeared, knew her first ; used to
meet her at the baths and swim with her and make up
to her. She thought he was in love with her, and, girl-
like, gave him her soul ; made him her god. Just
before she went back to school she brought him home
and introduced him to her sister, thinking that through
her sister she would keep in touch with him. She heard
no more till her sister told her they were married. She
said it drove her nearly crazy. . . .

44 1 guess Rose never knew that Daisy loved him, but
it was a bad tangle. Daisy did not say that Rose knew,
but she said Rose ought to have known — anybody
would have known. I think she was wrong. She was
judging Rose by herself; she was mighty quick and
observant, while Rose just lived like a flower. Besides,
Rose would never have wanted her on board the
schooner if she had even suspected the truth. No ;
Rose acted in all innocence. But Daisy couldn't see
that ; she was hurt too badly to judge fairly.

44 She did not excuse herself in the letter. She con-
fessed it was her wounded vanity led her to provoke
Winterstein. But she had no notion of anything worse.
4 1 saw he admired me,' she said, 4 and that pleased me.
I was hard and reckless ; I felt cheated : he was mine,
and I could have made a great man of him, I thought.

191

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

Oh, I was horribly to blame, but he caught my head
that night, and kissed me against my will. I could not
get away. If I had been standing up, his lips should
never have touched me. You will believe me, won't
you, and forgive me, now that I am dead ? . . .'

" I forgave her all right," the Judge said ; " or rather
I understood her, and there was nothing to forgive.
There's angel and devil in all of us, Charlie, and the
heaven and hell, too, is of our own making, it seems
tome.

192

A PROSTITUTE

IT had been a great evening. We had spent it in
an avant-scene at the Opera in Nice, listening
to The Messaline of the famous English musician
whose operas are played in every European capital
oftener than in London. The composer had been
" called " by the public a dozen times and had been
kissed on both cheeks by the somewhat voluminous
prima donna, to the delight of the audience. Now he
was giving supper to three or four of us at the Casino.
It was the night of the entrance of King Carnival, and
the whole of the Place Masse"na was thronged with the
gay, excited crowd.

The supper was excellent : but the eating and drink-
ing were only incidentals, the background, so to speak,
of the picture. The passionate music was still throbbing
in our blood ; the splendid defiance of the Gladiator's
death-song still rang in our ears and the unwonted
excitement called forth the true qualities of the guests
to unwonted expression.

A world-famous Belgian novelist told the astound-
ingly simple, passionate life-story of Aime*e Desclee, the
great French actress of his youth. Henri Bauer, whose
likeness to the great Dumas makes him famous,
related some of his experiences during the Commune,

195

A PROSTITUTE

and described the miseries he had undergone as a
convict in the French penal settlements on the other
side of the world. " Assez bizarre," was the novelist's
comment ; " it is the convicts and criminals to-day
who are steering humanity, and moulding the society of
the future."

But neither M 's story nor Bauer's experiences

made such an impression as a very simple episode
recounted by a Russian Pole, a M. Shimonski. The
incident is like a burr in my memory and refuses to
be dislodged, and I still ask myself whether it was the
narrator and his way of telling the story, or the story
itself, which turned for me a mere occurrence into a
sort of event.

Shimonski, I had been told, was a superb 'cellist,
and as soon as he began to speak one noticed that
his artistry was not limited to music In manner he
was reserved and quiet — almost subdued ; in person
unremarkable ; just over middle height, loosely made
and slight, with ordinary brown hair, moustaches and
beard, a low forehead, Calmuck nose and grey eyes.
The brown moustache did not prevent one seeing that
the lips were sensitive and finely cut ; a deep furrow
running down the forehead lent a certain look of age
or thought to the face. A man of thirty-five or so,
whose attractions were not on the surface, I should
never have noticed him were it not for his story, and
that was brought in quite naturally ; but he told it
with the brevity and suggestion of a master.

196

A PROSTITUTE

Bauer's >, I remember, had been inter-

rupted by the entrance of a party of noceurs who
seated themselves at the next table to us — two or tl
young rastas with some gay ladies from Monte Carlo
whose pictures \\vu- in every shop window. Bauer
stopped short, and the conversation naturally turned
to the oldest of the professions. Interest in it was
shown by the novelist, good-humoured toleration by
Bauer, when Shimonski suddenly took up the ball.

44 Why don't you write an opera about it ? " he
questioned de Lara ; " nothing has been done yet,
nothing, and it is the most enticing, absorbing then.r.
In his Maison des Marts Dostoievsky has a curious
page about the dignity of the convicts in Siberia — the
4 unfortunates ' as the inhabitants call them. The
contempt of others, he declares, increases the vanity
and self -assertion of the outcasts. That side of prosti-
tution. too, should be studied. . . . Then there is the
whole terrible education to be pictured, the rose
dreams and facile high enthusiasms of the girl, all
blotted out by the knowledge of the brute, man : the
drama of desertion and abuse, the tragedy of the
street and the sewer — the massacre of the innocent.
What an opera to write, what a Bible ! . . .

14 1 was in Paris as a student ten or fifteen years ago,
very poor, living the usual life. . . . The other day
coming out of the opera — I play at the Opera Comique
— a friend took me to supper at Du rands. While we
were talking a lady came in, a lady with her bonne.

197

A PROSTITUTE

She had a cup of chocolate. I felt that I knew her,
and yet I was uncertain ; I was puzzled by her face ;
it was distinguished -looking ; but I could not be sure.
As she got up to go I saw that she moved well, carried
her head — a little proudly ; in a flash I was sure and
had gone over to her :

" ' Surely I'm not mistaken, madam, you are
Marie ? '

" ' Yes,' she returned quietly, 4 1 knew you at once.'

" I was delighted. ' When can I see you ? ' She
seemed cold and not agreeably surprised as I had
expected. But I persisted ; I was overjoyed to see
her ; she was part of my lost youth. ... I went
out with her and found to my astonishment that she
had an automobile at the door.

" ' My chief pleasure,' she said deprecatingly. ' I live
at Auteuil. Paris deafens me, and I love the Bois,
and the environs of Paris, the drives, the trees and the
river. . . .'

'You must come to lunch with me,' I cried; 'I
must have a talk with you. I missed you so dread-
fully for years and years, and have thought of you so
often.'

" ' You left me,' she said, * because you said your
mother was dying.'

" I was astonished by something sarcastic in her
tone.

" 4 It was true,' I said. 4 Her illness called me back
to Russia ; my mother was nearly a year dying. That's

198

A PROSTITUTE

how I lost sight of you. I could not think of even you
in her suffering.'

" 4 Oh,' she said, as if half convinced. * I thought
it an excuse.'

44 4 How could you ? ' I exclaimed. 4 Does one
invent excuses when one is in love ? '

44 Her face grew cold.

44 4 When I returned to France,' I went on, * I hunted
for you everywhere, but could not find you. I had
a little money and was so eager to share it with
you.'

44 4 You still play the 'cello ? ' she asked with polite
indifference.

444 Yes, yes,' I cried. 4I'm now the first 'cellist at
the Opera. But losing you took away the brightness
of life for me. My youth seemed to die when I lost you.
My mother and my first love went together. It sounds
sentimental, but I cannot help it : it is true. . . .
How could you have believed that I invented excuses
to explain leaving you ? '

44 She lifted her eyebrows to me slowly. It was an
old gesture of hers. Her eyes were very fine, nut-
brown and long; she used to lift her eyelids as if they
were tired, slowly unveiling the great eyes.

44 4 If you knew the lies men tell us,' she said.

44 4 You are happy ? ' I asked. 4 You have suc-
ceeded ? '

44 4 Oh yes,' she replied carelessly; 4 1 too was \viso
in time ; one must be reasonable. 'Tis in this world

199

A PROSTITUTE

we live, and after we have been used by men, we learn
to use them.'

" ' You must not be bitter,' I said. ' Come to-
morrow, and we will have a feast. Come.'

" She yielded to my eagerness ; said she would pick
me up on the morrow at the corner of the Boulevard
and the Rue Royale, where I promised to be at twelve
o'clock.

" ' I must go now,' she went on, ' my bonne will be
astonished. I never speak to strangers,' and she
glanced at the automobile where the bonne was fidget-
ing— a little impatiently, I thought. What could I do
but thank her and take her to the carriage ? It slid
round the corner and vanished, and I was left staring
at the church of the Madeleine opposite, and the trees
outlined against the solemn spaces of the sky. . . .

" I had not recognised her at once, and yet she had
not altered much. Fancy not knowing Marie, with
whom I had had such joyous days and nights ! She
had grown strangely dignified and quiet. How gay
she used to be ; interested in everything and interesting.
I tried to call it all back again ; but the gorgeous life
was gone ; it belonged to the past, it was all dead like
a long disused room where the dust lies thick. . . .

" Next day I was at the appointed place at the exact
moment, and almost immediately she drove up in her
automobile. She looked more like the old Marie : there
was a smile on her face.

' You are punctual, I see,' she said. ' Won't you

200

A PROSTITUTE

have a turn before lunch ? It is only just midday,
and I seldom lunch till half-past twelve/

44 It was last May ; the chestnuts were just coming
out in the Avenue and in the Bois. We whirled
along the white road and past the great arch, which
always recalls Napoleon to us Russians, and I learned
something of Marie's later history. She was always
articulate, what you call expansive, and her frankness
used to please me as much as her gaiety, for I was
always brooding and melancholy.

44 She had met a man of sixty, it appeared, and had
lived with him for eight or ten years. He was dis-
illusioned, she said, yet kind at bottom : the sort of
man one thinks in youth very common, who is rarer
than a perfect black pearl.

4 He died a year or so ago, and left me enough to
keep me in ease, so I take pleasure hi going to the
theatre and opera, and coming back to the house which
he bought for me. You see I have a little girl, a
younger Marie. . . .' And she half -smiled again. . . .

" It all seemed pathetic to me, I don't know why ;
something transitory in it all and faded like an old
portrait done in tapestry. . . .

11 When we turned she asked :

44 4 Where shall we lunch ? J

444 You don't think 1 l.nve forgotten your taste,'
I cried. ' 1 et us go to that big brasserie on the Boule-
vard, where you get the best beer in Par k'

44 4 Beer ? ' she replied. 4 1 detest it : I cannot

201

A PROSTITUTE

drink it, it makes me ill ; I never could stand the
stuff.'

" ' There must be some mistake,' I replied. ' You
always used to drink beer. You said you liked it
better than anything. Don't you remember ? We
used always to go to the brasserie at the corner. You
cannot have forgotten the suppers of museau de boeuj
and beer — you loved it all.'

" c I remember,' she said, and a half smile stole
over her face, and the heavy waxen eyelids drew up,
' I remember ; but if you please, you will give me
wine now. I prefer wine.'

" ' As you like,' I replied, a little disappointed.
' Shall we go to Durands ? Though I don't suppose
you will get museau de bceuj at Durands.'

" ' I don't like museau de bceuf,' she pouted.

" ' Really ? ' I cried, and could not get over the
wonder, but I followed her lead and at Durands ordered
what she wanted — the ordinary conventional lunch,
a little sole, the plat du jour, and a bottle of sound light
claret.

" We talked of a thousand things, recalled a thousand
memories : in an hour she had become as gay and
vivacious as the Marie I had loved so passionately.

" ' Tell me,' I said at last, searching still for the key
of the mystery, c why you smiled when I recalled your
old liking for museau de boeuj and beer ? '

" ' Haven't you guessed ? ' she asked. ' I never liked
either of them. I hate them.'

202

A PROSTITUTE

" Astonishment was still upon me : she laughed
again a little.

" * I knew you were not rich in those days, my
friend,' she said, touching my arm lightly with her fan,
'so I pretended to like museau de bceuj and beer,
because they were cheap. ... I cared for you, you
see,' she added gravely.

" 1 was struck dumb."

Shimonski stopped speaking. His long fingers
played with his wine-glass ; while his eyes stared into
the noisy white square unseeing.

After a pause de Lara said : " Yet many good
people would be ashamed to speak to Marie; they
would call her a light woman, a prostitute. ..."

"What wonderful creatures Frenchwomen are!"
cried the novelist. "Such relations between men
and women in France are often almost perfect; no
coarseness in them, nothing like your hideous Piccadilly
us, your brutal prostitution. Here even vicious-
ness is not gross."

"I don't agree with you," said the Englishman
slowly. " That doesn't seem to me the true moral
of the story; indeed, properly considered, the true
moral seems to me very different. It seems to show
not the superiority but the inferiority of Frenchmen."

44 What do you mean ? " cried the Belgian. 44 That
is the wildest paradox I ever heard."

M Much more than a paradox," said Henri Bauer,
44 it is ridiculously absurd."

203

A PROSTITUTE

" Come," said Lara, " won't you explain ? "

" I can perhaps explain," said the Englishman, " in
terms of art, though I should despair of tiying to
explain ethically. I think Frenchmen are quicker to
see aesthetic reasonings."

" 1 don't care how you do it," said the French novelist ;
" to attempt to justify such a paradox will be amusing."

" Suppose you went into a house," began the English-
man, " and found all along the walls copies of the
finest pictures in the world, good copies, excellent
copies, let us say. Let us even go further still and say
that there is really taste shown in the picking of the
masterpieces. Would you think the man a critic of
art, a connoisseur of the beautiful ? You would
almost admit, wouldn't you, that a man who had such
copies of masterpieces had no real sense of what art
was ? For consider, the very thing that the copy has
not got is the peculiarity that makes the great picture,
the soul of the masterpiece is lacking. All the rest is
there. The imitation is superb if you please, but the
soul is not there, and it is the soul you love in the
masterpiece."

" That is all right," said Bauer, " but I don't see any
application; I see no similarity even in the two cases."

" A moment," replied the English. " You say you
have copies of love on all hands in France that are
almost as good as the real thing. You say that the
goodness of the copy proves your high civilisation. I
say it proves your low appreciation. If you knew

204

A PROSTITUTE

what love was, the master- virtue of love, you wouldn't
have an imitation at any price ; the imitation is always
without the soul of the masterpiece, and it is the soul
you want, the highest reach of it.

14 In England and in America, in Germany and in
Russia, there is more or less the soul of love, and copies
of it are disdained, and even the best of them not
much appreciated ; but in France and in Japan, where
you have not got the real thing, where the passion of
love itself is almost unknown, the imitation is excellent,
and you are content with first-rate copies.

The English have the ideal and, alas ! the Picca-
dilly Circus also ; but the Piccadilly Circus properly
considered is a proof that we do know what the ideal

means."

" A superb argument," said the Belgian novelist ;
44 but still I think it a paradox."

44 There is no doubt something in what you say,"
replied de Lam, 44 but you must admit that Marie
at any rate had some of the essence of true love in her,
at least the noble self-sacrifice of it."

44 Surely," replied the Englishman. 44 The essence
of true love may be found in illegitimate unions.
I am not contending that the master-virtue has to be
blessed in church."

44 1 agree with you," cried Shimonski, 44 that it is the
self-sacrifice that redeems and ennobles love ! "

44 That doesn't seem to me the true moral of the
story."

205

ISAAC AND REBECCA

( IIARACTERS

REBECCA ISAAC. A brunette of seventeen, very pretty ;

small with regular features and brilliant colouring.

DAVID ISAAC'S daughter.
DAVID ISAAC. A Jew about sixty, with high narrow

forehead and soft, indecisive chin, grey hair and

beard, a little bent.
REUBEN LEVISON. A banker, very rich. A little shorter

than ISAAC, inclined to be stout, bald. DAVID

ISAAC'S cousin.
MRS GOLDSCIIMIDT. An old woman attending DAVID

ISAAC.

REBECCA. So I can't get the dress ? Oh, it's too bad.
I've been working for a fortnight and have everything
ready, and now I can't go to the dance. It's too bad.
(Stamps with rage.)

ISAAC. But vy not, tear ? You can vear something

REBECCA. I've nothing to wear. My clothes are too
shocking. I never get a new frock — never.
o 209

ISAAC AND REBECCA

ISAAC. I'm sorry, tear ; but I can't get six pounds
in a moment,

REBECCA. A moment — a week, you mean ; you said
a week ago you'd try. Try ? H'm !

ISAAC. And I did try, my tear, I did indeed ; but I'm
getting old and I can't sell de jewellery like I used
and dey von't trust me now mit fine pieces, only cheap
shtuff.

REBECCA. Oh, if I were a man, if only I were a man !

ISAAC. Oh, don't say dat, tear ! Vot vould you do ?
You are so pretty, like an ainchel, my little girl. (He
puts his hand caressingly on her shoulders.) Everything
vill come right mit a little patience.

REBECCA. Patience? That's what you always say.
Patience! I hate the word. . . . Why don't you see
your cousin Reuben? (ISAAC shrugs his shoulders
despairingly and closes his eyes in token that nothings
to be hoped for from that quarter; the girl goes on.)
Why not take me to see him ?

ISAAC. Vot could you do ? He's as old as me.

REBECCA. Oh, I don't know what I'd do : but I'd
do anything rather than rot away in this hole like the
others. I hate the Commercial Road and the flashy
foreigners, leering and sneering. I love gentlemen
like you see in the park on Sunday, quiet, dignified. . . .
I hate common people and poverty. It's a crime to be
poor — a crime.

ISAAC. Oh, my tear, don't say dat : I've alvays
vorked hard, alvays. I thought honesty and vork

210

ISAAC AND REBECCA

vould make me rich, but they didn't. I've alvays told
my customers de truth, said vat de tings cost or
nearly : but de vorld likes to be cheated, likes to tink
de false stones real

REBECCA. And the false stones are real. Oh, if
I were a man ! I'd tell 'em the rings would buy 'em
sweethearts and money and happiness. I'd fool them
as they want to be fooled. Why not ? If you don't
someone else will and you'll get left, that's all — stranded,
old, poor, despised ; poor — it's the vilest sin !

ISAAC. I vos alvays too scrupulous, alvays too
honourable, and now it's too late to begin all over
again. Besides, nobody trusts me now, dey all know
I'm poor. Dey used to tink I vos rich and a miser
and dey vould give me anyting; now dey know dey
don't trust me no more, dey know I am honest and dey
don't trust me.

REBECCA. Why didn't you go to your cousin and
make him take you into his bank ? Not now, I mean,
but when you first married.

ISAAC. I vent to him, but he said I vos a fool to
marry a poor girl vidout a tocher or dot, and Rachel ven
she heard it vos angry and vould not let me go near
him even ven you vos born.

REBECCA. He doesn't know anything about me,
does he ? Nothing ? You're sure ? . . . Tell me
about him ? Is he big and strong and calm ?

ISAAC. He's smaller nor me, a little shtout, bald he
vos too ; but he has a vay vid 'im.

211

ISAAC AND REBECCA

REBECCA. Is the bank large ?

ISAAC. Oh, a great place mit dozens of clerks and
brass railings, and you hear ze money singing all day
long — ah !

REBECCA (clasping her hands). Oh, tell me all about
it, all ! I looked into a bank the other day ; it was
bare and cold, but dignified. Has he a room to himself ?
And a man outside the door to stop people going in ?

ISAAC. Yes, on ze first floor. He is not near ze
clerks. All by himself upstairs in a great room, mit
thick carpets and beautiful chairs mit green leather,
real Chippendale chairs — beautiful. And dere is a
room in vich you vait, mit all de papers, papers hi
Cherman, French and English. And dere is anodder
room mit a long table and blotting pads and seats all
about. Oh, it is a great place !

REBECCA. But tell me about him. Is he married ?
What is his wife like ? Has he any children ? Tell
me all about him.

ISAAC. I don't know anyting, my tear: I've never
asked.

REBECCA. Never asked ! Oh ! Has he a motor ?
Is his chauffeur in livery ? Have you seen a woman
in it ? Oh, if I had only seen the outside of it, I'd
know if he was married or not. I'd know from the
chauffeur, I'd know from the look of the carriage. Is
it open or closed ? Does it ever have flowers in it ?
Where do you keep your eyes ?

ISAAC. I've only seen it outside de door. I've never

212

ISAAC AND REBECCA

looked at it except to tink how line it vos and how
big.

REBECCA. Is it big ? How many seats inside ?

ISAAC. I don't know.

REBECCA. Oh, my goodness ! My goodness ! How
si nil! I get away from all this ? How shall I ? Can't
you take me to see him ?

ISAAC. How can I, my tear ; how can I ?

REBECCA. When is his birthday ?

ISAAC. His birthday ? Oh, soon, now, in July, ze
fifth.

REBECCA. That's only a fortnight to wait and then
you must take me. I should have a present for him.
I'll ask Julia to embroider some handkerchiefs with his
initials, and I'll say I did them.

ISAAC (admiringly). You clever girl !

REBECCA. Now you must go out every day, father,
and tell lies about the jewellery. What does it matter ?
Get the girls to put it on. Tell them the rings make
their hands look pretty, that a necklace makes them
look rich, like fine ladies. Say anything to make
me enough money for a new dress. I must have a new
dress.

ISAAC. I vill do my best, but

REBECCA (pouting). But, but, always but

213

ISAAC AND REBECCA

(ISAAC waiting. REBECCA enters dressed to go out.)

ISAAC. Vy, you've got your hair down. Oh, it is
pretty, you do look pretty, but dat dress is tight.
No ? Veil, you know best. But you've powdered
your face. Not ? Veil, you know best. I like
you as you vos every day. You look younger and
older. I don't know vot. Veil, veil, you know best.

REBECCA. My hair's down, of course ; I'm fifteen,
remember,

ISAAC. He ! he ! Vot a girl it is ! You are seven-
teen, Rebecca. You vos born on ze fourth of April
1887. Dot's vy ve called you " Jubilee " for your
second name, dot's vy.

REBECCA. My second name's Judith, and I was
born in July, '90. I'm not fifteen yet.

ISAAC. My tear, you are mistaken. You are seven-
teen years past, I'm sure.

REBECCA (stamping). You stupid ! stupid. I wonder
mother could stand you. I'm fifteen, I tell you.

ISAAC. Veil, veil, my tear. If you've made up
your mind I'm sure you're right. You know best,
just as your mother vos alvays right. Alvays a
master-voman, a

REBECCA. Oh, come along. You'd prose away
there all day. (After starting.) What will you say to
Uncle Reuben ?

214

ISAAC AND REBECCA

ISAAC. Vy, vot you told me. Dot I vant him t<>
know you, you are so pretty — vot ?

REBECCA. What age is he exactly ? What is h«
like?

ISAAC. He's my first cousin. He must be over
fifty. He's shtout and shtrong. He's only had to
take care of himself all his life. His father vos rich.
But vot vill you say to him ?

REBECCA. I don't know till I see him. He's very
rich, you say, a real millionaire ? An English million-
aire ?

ISAAC. My tear, he's rich enough for anyting. He
has two or tree million. A house in Hampstead
like a palace, and servants everyvere. He is de
Reuben Levison — de great banker.

REBECCA. And you went to him when mother was
ill and he would not help you. What did he say then ?

ISAAC. He said so I make my bed so I must lie on
it, and tings like dat.

REBECCA. How can men be such brutes ? If he
had been poor, with children of his own, I could under-
stand it. But rich and without anyone, I can't. He
must be hard like stone and cruel.

ISAAC. Oh no, my tear. But ze rich have to
refuse to give at ze beginning and de habit becomes
second nature to zem. Besides, if dey didn't love
money more dan anyting, dey'd never get rich, never.

REBECCA. Why didn't you get rich ? Didn't mother
want you to get rich ? Didn't she spur you on ?

215

ISAAC AND REBECCA

ISAAC. She loved me, and ve vos happy. I vos too
honest. I told de truth, not lies. But ven I tink of
you, I am sorry. I solt more this veek from lies, and
it pleases everybody better. I told ze girls dey all
looked sweet and so beautiful, as you told me to.
Dot's how I got you the dress, and it is pretty. But
it's short, do you like it so short ? You are very
pretty in it.

REBECCA. I'm getting hot. I'll have to use my puff.
Why couldn't we drive ? Everything is against the
poor — everything. . . . You must tell him I'm the
prettiest girl in the Road and not fifteen yet.

ISAAC. But vy so young, my tear? — fifteen, it's a
child.

REBECCA. Julia Hoppe said old men liked children.
That's why, if you must know.

ISAAC. How clever you are, my tear.

REBECCA. If you hated poverty like I do you'd be
clever.

Ill

(REUBEN LEVISON'S office.)

(REUBEN is seated at a table. He looks at ISAAC with the
aversion of the rich man for the poor relation. )

REUBEN. What can I do for you, David ? What do
you want ?

ISAAC. It's your birthday, Reuben, and I've brought
my girl to see you.

216

ISAAC AND REBECCA

MR LEVISON. Your girl ? What do you mean ?
Your wife ?

ISAAC (hurriedly). No, no; my wife's dead. I mean
my lit !lr child. She's zc prettiest girl in ze Road—
•/<• j initial in London, and so smart and clever, and
she wants to see you, Reuben — her rich uncle !

MR Li:vis..\. But I don't want to see her. I've too
much to do, and I can't waste time on children. I'm
busy, you must tell her that.

ISAAC (twisting his hands about). Oh, Reuben, I can't,
I can't : she'll be so disappointed at not seeing you.
You can't refuse. She has vorked your initials on
some handkerchiefs, oh! so beautifully. She is ze
prettiest girl in all London ; she is like a flower.

MR LEVISON. What's her name ? What age is
she?

ISAAC (hurriedly). Her name's Rebecca ; she's — she's
grown up.

MR LEVISON. All right, bring her in. I have no
time to spare. I can only give her a moment or two.
I thought perhaps you wanted to see me on some
business.

ISAAC. Oh, I'll bring her; I'll bring her at vonce.
(He hurries out of the room.)

(A moment or two after; REBECCA comes in alone.
REUBEN LEVISON looks at her, his sulky, annoyed
air runixhefi. He gets up as the girl comes towards

him.)

217

ISAAC AND REBECCA

MR LEVISON. Take a chair, Miss Isaac ; take a chair.
(Putting one ready for her.) What can I do for you ?

REBECCA (smiling saucily). Tell me first of all that
the uncle is not ashamed of his niece.

MR LEVISON (a little embarrassed, laughs). Ashamed,
indeed ! Who could be ashamed of so pretty a girl ?

REBECCA (pouting). Yet you've let all these years pass
without caring to know anything about the pretty
girl.

MR LEVISON. Now is that fair, Miss Rebecca ?
How did I know that Miss Isaac was so pretty ? How
could I guess ? I thought you were a child.

REBECCA (smiling). Well, I forgive you now. (She
produces the handkerchiefs.) I've brought you something
for your birthday. But perhaps Mrs Levison won't
like you to use them. You see I've worked your
initials on them. (She lays them on the desk.)

MR LEVISON (laughing). They're very pretty, and
I'm very much obliged. Of course I'll use them.
There's no Mrs Levison — you see I've had no time to
get married ; now I'm too old, too ugly.

REBECCA. No, indeed you're not ugly. I won't
have you slander yourself. And you don't look a bit
old. I hate boys, they're no good. (She throws him
a long glance from under her eyelashes.)

MR LEVISON (he gets up as if drawn by a magnet
and stands over her). I wish I was young and handsome
enough for you, Rebecca. May I call you Rebecca ?

REBECCA. Of course you may. (Seriously.) I don'l

218

ISAAC AND REBECCA

care for handsome men ; they're always thinking of
themselves. (Looking up at him.) You look strong
and I love strength.

MR LEVISON. Oh, I'm strong enough, but I'm old,
little girl. What age are you, Rebecca ? You look
half child, half woman.

REBECCA (looking up at him). I'm fifteen, nearly.

MR LEVISON (has laid his hands on her shoulder, but
now draws them away quickly). Only fifteen ? I say, that's
too young. My God ! I'd have thought you sixteen at
least. (He moves back from her, his face a little flushed.)

REBECCA (looking at him with eyes that drink him in).
I said " nearly fifteen," but I may be nearer sixteen.
(Archly.) Mayn't I ? Don't you know that all women
make themselves younger than they are ? (She smiles.)
Suppose I said I was sixteen past ?

MR LEVISON (his face clears, and he steps nearer
her, smiling. She rises). But are you ? That's the
point ? (He lifts her chin in his hand.)

REBECCA (burning her boats). Yes, I'm over sixteen.

MR LEVISON. Really ?

REBECCA (nods her head). I was born in '87. I'm a
Jubilee girl. I'm just seventeen, you see— quite old
already.

MR LEVISON (grown bold again, he slips his arm
round her shoulders). I think you're a witch, Rebecca,
and know just what I am thinking of.

REBECCA (looking up at him). What are you thinking
of?

219

ISAAC AND REBECCA

MR LEVISON. (Their eyes meet.) Of you, of course.
I think you're one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen
in my life.

REBECCA (looking up at him again). But do you
mean it ?

MR LEVISON (drawing her to him). Of course I mean it,
and clever, too, if all your father says is true. By the
way (he draws back again), where is he ?

REBECCA (negligently). In the waiting-room, I
suppose.

MR LEVISON (his eyes narrow cunningly). Why didn't
he come in with you ?

REBECCA (her eyebrows lifted). I did not want him
to come. Do you want him ?

MR LEVISON (suspiciously). Why does he wait ?

REBECCA. To take me home again, I suppose : he
brought me, you know.

MR LEVISON. Oh, I don't like that; you see I have
my business to think of. People may want to see me
at any time. I'm really very busy. I told your
father so. (Goes back to his desk.)

REBECCA (biting her lips). I'm sorry. Do you want
me to go ? I'm sorry.

MR LEVISON (recalled to full self-possession). You see
I'm busy, my dear Miss Isaac. I'm very busy and
your father'll get tired waiting.

REBECCA. He's used to waiting for me. He's
reading some old German paper, and has forgotten all
about poor little Rebecca.

220

ISAAC AND REBECCA

MR LEVISON (seating himself resolutely at his desk
again and beginning to gather up some papers). It was
very kind of you to come, Miss Rebecca — a very
agreeable surprise, but I don't like to keep Isaac
waiting, and I'm really very busy this morning.

REBECCA. Well, good-bye, Uncle (going towards
him and holding out her hand, adding in a low, reproach-
ful voice) : you're not angry with me for coming, are
you ? I was so eager to meet the great Mr Levison.
But now I'm afraid you're angry with me.

MR LEVISON (gets up and takes her hand). Oh no,
I'm not angry, Rebecca: you know I'm not angry.
But — but I am really very busy. Some other day, eh ?
You'll come again, eh? Another time — by yourself,
eh?

(Their eyes meet, and again he flushes while putting his
other hand on hers. She casts her eyes down, turns
and walks quietly to the door. )

MR LEVISON (as she disappears he puffs out his
bn-ath). My God! she's pretty; a little devil, a little
witch. But I did right. That old father's cunning.
What did he want, waiting there ? Down at the heel,
as usual. How much would he want ? . . . Phew !
I am hot. . . . Who would have thought such an Old
Cheap- Jack would have had such a daughter ! I very
nearly kissed her. If I had, would she have taken it ?
My God ! I believe she would. What a sweet girl !
But the father outside the door. Pouf ! if makes you

221

ISAAC AND REBECCA

careful. ... I wonder is she sixteen past or did she
only say it to give me confidence. Oh, she must be
sixteen or seventeen. She's perfectly formed, her legs
and breasts, yes, seventeen she must be, a perfect little
witch. ... I wonder does she know what she's doing.
Sometimes she has such a child-air, her eyes are liquid.
Some girls are coquettes in the cradle. Whew ! . . .
I must have Rubie in. Shall I give orders not to let
them in again ? No, I won't. (Rings bell on desk, the
door opens at once. A sort of upper servant enters.)
Send Mr Rubie to me, and I'm " not in " to Mr Isaac
any more ; you understand ? — to Mr Isaac ; but if Miss
Isaac calls, let her in.
SERVANT. Yes, sir.

ISAAC. Vot did he say, tear ; vot did he say ?
REBECCA. Why did you wait ? Let us go.
ISAAC. Vos he nice ? Did he — vos he kind ?
REBECCA (in a hard voice). Let us go.
(She goes out with her parasol ready to open, and flashing
bright smiles to everyone she meets. ISAAC trots
behind, but when they get into the street he ranges
up beside her.)

ISAAC. Vot did he say, my tear ? I am very anxious.
REBECCA (looking at him with hard eyes). What was
there to say ? You were on the other side of the door.
Why didn't you go away ?

222

ISAAC AND REBECCA

ISAAC. Oh, my tear, I did vatever you vanted.
I thought it best to be near you. If you had called out
I vould have come in at vonce.

(REBECCA looks at him contemptuously.)
REBECCA. Come in ? What for ? (Puts her nose
in the air.)

(They go towards the Commercial Road from the City.)
ISAAC (with his irrcspunxihle optimism tries again and
again to engage her in conversation). Vot line oil ices
and vot nice servants ! His man, dat man in black,
came in and spoke to me. He remembered me from
years ago. Reuben's not married. I thought you
would like to know. Ze man told me he lived alone at
Iliimpstead (REBECCA looks at him pityingly) and he has
two motors, one closed for de City, and an open one.
Oh, he has got on tremendously. Lords come to him
in his oil ice and great people. (REBECCA looks at him
reflectively.) Oh, I found out a lot.

REBECCA. You did. What did you tell the man ?

ISAAC. I say vere we live, and he ask me who you
vere ; I say my daughter. I am proud of you, tear.
I said I had brought you because you had vanted to
come, that you had vorked some handkerchiefs for
your uncle's birthday.

REBECCA (looks at him). Why must you be a fool I

ISAAC. Fool ? Vy, he vant to know, and I am
proud of you — so proud, Rebecca.

REBECCA. Silly ! I would ask everything and tell
nothing. You chatter, chatter, chatter, so that every -

223

ISAAC AND REBECCA

body knows your business. That's why I say you're
foolish. I'd tell nothing.

ISAAC. But, Rebecca ! Vy are you angry mit me ?
I can only do my best. (Her face is resigned and a
little weary.) I do all I can for you. I do my
best.

REBECCA (looks at him and sums it all up dispas-
sionately). Why don't you go away and leave me ?

ISAAC. I'm sorry I did not. I thought I vould be
a help to you.

REBECCA. Help ! You can't help me ; you can't
even help yourself. You are what they call unlucky.
(She shrugs her shoulders.)

ISAAC (drops his head). Dat's vot Rachel used to say :
I vos unlucky — and perhaps I vos. But it's being too
honest dat has kept me down. To be honest and
truthful one should be rich — I'm too good ; ze poor
have no right to be honest. . . .

A MONTH LATER

(REBECCA comes into the room dressed for going out.
ISAAC looks at her.)

ISAAC. Vere did you get dat dress ? How grown-
up you look ! Oh, I like you in dat long dress best !
It makes you look taller, and you've done your hair
up, too. Vere are you going ? Oh, you are pretty.

REBECCA (looks at him quietly). I am going for a walk,

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

I shall perhaps be out to dinner. Julia Hoppe may
give me dinner.

ISAAC. Oh, you're going mit Julia ? Veil, she is
nice, but a little fast, my tear, isn't she ? You vill
be careful ?

REBECCA. It's better to be a little fast than slow
these times (drawing on a long glove as she speaks).

ISAAC. Vot splendid gloves ! You must have paid six
or seven shilling for dem gloves ? Vere are you going ?

REBECCA (sharply). Ask me no questions, I'll tell you
no lies. I'm going to Julia Hoppe's, if you must know.

ISAAC. May I come ? I don't like you valking about
de streets alone.

REBECCA. You may come if you want to. But you
liad much better go out with the tray. It's stopped
raining now, and this dress is not paid for yet.

ISAAC. But vould you like me to come ?

REBECCA. I don't care. I think you had better
make your round. I'm all right. Nothing'll happen to
me. Nothing ever does happen in this dull hole. Now
don't worry : I'll be back soon. Nobody'll run
away with me. (She goes out of the door.) Worse
luck!

(MR LEVISON seated in his room, REBECCA enters quickly. )

MR LEVISON. How did you get in ? Who let you hi ?
Where's Lewis ?

p 225

ISAAC AND REBECCA

REBECCA (with colour in cheeks). Three questions in
one breath : I walked in, simply. No, no ! (Coming
close to him.) I'll tell the truth. I waited till Lewis
went to the lift with the gentleman who just came out,
and then I slipped in. Are you glad to see me ?

MR LEVISON (rises). I don't know. I'm glad, yes.
Who could help being glad ? But I'm afraid it's not
wise. Where's your father ?

REBECCA. I left him at home. (Taking a seat.)
Did you wish to see him ?

MR LEVISON (dryly). Not exactly.

REBECCA. You don't like him, but you're wrong.
He's a good sort — too good, that's the worst of
him.

MR LEVISON (doubtfully). Is he ? I dare say.
But he's poor, and — and he always talks morality.

REBECCA. Talks morality ?

MR LEVISON. Yes, he says he's poor because he's
honest and tells the truth, and all that. That moral
talk's frightening : in business it always means an
extravagantly high price. No one talks morality who
does not mean to get six times as much as the thing's
worth ; at any rate that's my experience.

REBECCA (laughing heartily). How funny you are,
and how interesting ! Every word that's said, then,
you think has something to do with the money people
want to get from you ?

MR LEVISON. Of course.

REBECCA. Poor daddy ! You don't understand

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

him. There's no purpose in what lie s;i\s. lie's
really very good and kind.

MB LEVISON. He brought you here, didn't lie?

REBECCA. No. (Hesitate*, then boldly.) I wanted
to come. I came alone.

MR LEVISON. Really ? And he's not waiting outside
for you ? Not at the corner ?

REBECCA. Of course he's not waiting: he doesn't
even know I've come.

MR LEVISON (rising, but still hesitating). And you
really are nearly seventeen, not fifteen ?

REBECCA (getting up gravely, and turning round
so that he can see her long dress). Now do I look fifteen ?
I was bom in '87, I'm a Jubilee girl. (Sitting down
again.) You must believe me. Why, my second
name's "Jubilee."

MR LEVISON. Is it ? H'm ! Write it down there,
will you ? H'm. Your father '11 be expecting you
home soon — to dinner ?

REBECCA. No, I told him I was going to dine with
a girl friend, Miss Hoppe. There now (laughing).
Does that please you ?

MR LEVISON. That's right. Always tell me every-
thing and we'll get along like a house on fire. (Goes
over to her.) So you wanted to see me, eh, little girl ?
(She looks up at him.) Would you come out to lunch
with me, Rebecca ?

REBECCA (formally). I should be very pleased.
.Mu LEVISON (flushing slightly). You look much

227

ISAAC AND REBECCA

better in that dress, taller : won't you stand up and
let me see ?

(REBECCA stands up.)

MR LEVISON (embarrassed). You are pretty! (Puts
his hand on her shoulder and draws her to him.) If you
were not so young, I'd ask you for a kiss. (Slides his
arm down to her waist.) Would you give me one,
Rebecca ?

(REBECCA slowly lifts her eyes to his. MR LEVISON
kisses her on the lips ; he feels her yield herself.) '

MR LEVISON (noisily to get rid of the significance of
the act}. There, now we are friends, eh ? Oh, you are
lovely, lovely. (Moves away a step.) What lips you
have ! We'll be great friends, won't we ? (REBECCA
nods and looks up in his face.) Will you do something
for me ?

REBECCA (gravely, like a child). Yes, I will.

MR LEVISON. I want you to go out first, or my
clerks'll talk, and I don't want 'em to talk about you.
I like you too much for that. You go out and wait for
me at the next corner, the corner of the street leading
to the bank — you know the corner ? (REBECCA nods
quickly.) I'll come in five minutes or so, do you mind
waiting ? (REBECCA shakes her head "no" and smiles.)
You don't mind ? You're a brave girl. (She turns to
go. LEVISON puts his arms round her from behind.)
But first I want a long kiss, a real kiss. (REBECCA
turns her head round and their lips meet. A long pause,
during which he kisses and caresses her.) Now, run

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

along, Rebecca ; run along, my dear. I'll not be five
minutes. (She goes out, whik he stands rooted in the
middle of the room.) She is a miracle, that girl, a
blooming miracle ! Seventeen, and kiss like that.
She's everything — clever, bright, quiet — and beautiful.
(As if defending himself he speaks aloud.) A lovely girl.
Any man might be proud of her — lovely and clever.
What lips, what eyes ! (Going to his desk.) If I'm the
first she'll not repent it. She really cares for me, I do
believe. How her lips trembled and clung ! My God !
I'm hot. But does she care for me ? Or is it just my
money ? Well, what matter ! Her kisses are just as
sweet — perhaps sweeter. . . . She's well dressed, her
father must make something. She'll deal with him.
She told the truth. I need not trouble. It'll be all
right. She cares for me a little, perhaps. I must
hurry. If she waits there long some fool clerk'll
speak to her : d — n them ! (Pulls his desk to, and
looks for ///.v fiat.) How lovely she is. What lips, what
a figure. (Stands before the door.) My heart's thump-
ing, lips dry. I didn't believe I could feel like this.
I'm more excited than I ever was in the biggest deal.
By God! this is living. (Goes out hastily.)

VII

A YEAR LATER
(ISAAC is in bed. MRS GOLDSCHMIDT comes into the room. )

MRS GOLDSCHMIDT. A gentleman to see you, sir.

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

ISAAC. To see me, a gentleman ? I'm in bed. I'm
not veil. Vot gentleman ? Vot's his name ?

MR LEVISON (entering the room). It's only me, Isaac.
Thought I'd come and see you. Heard you had a cold.
Bad enough to keep you in bed, is it ?

ISAAC. Oh, Mr Levison, this is kind. Yes, it's
pleurisy I've got. I vos out in the rain, and dis
doctor shtuff, he no good.

MR LEVISON (looking round). Have you no one to
wait on you but that old woman ? Where's Rebecca ?

ISAAC. She vent out and has not gome back yet.
Young tings must go out.

MR LEVISON. But didn't she come back at three ?

ISAAC. She generally comes back about dree, but
I don't know to-day : I vos sleeping.

MR LEVISON. When did you awake ?

ISAAC. About a quarter of an hour ago. Vot time
is it now ?

MR LEVISON. After nine. But don't you know
where she is ? You must know. A self-willed young
girl like that ought not to be out alone. You know
where she is, don't you ?

ISAAC. Perhaps I do.

MR LEVISON. Well, where ?

ISAAC. Vy should I tell you ?

MR LEVISON (getting angry). Because I want to
know, and I mean good to her and no one else
does.

ISAAC. So you say.

230

ISAAC AND REBECCA

MR LEVISON. But why don't you help me when
I say I mean good to her ?

ISAAC. Vy should I help you, Reuben Levison ?
You took my girl from me, persuaded her to go out
vid you. You gave her dose sable furs, which she says
are cheap shtuff. But ven I vos young I deal in furs
at Lembcrg, and I know. . . .

MR LEVISON. Well, what's that to you ? You
brought her to see me, didn't you ? I didn't ask you
to. You brought her for something ?

ISAAC. She vanted to go : she vos discontent : vot
could I do ? You vos old and I thought you might
help her like a fader : she's so pretty.

MR LEVISON. Men don't feel like fathers to pretty
girls ; at any rate, I don't. And now she's got me.
I care for her and want her. If she'll only play fair
with me, I'll be good to her. She's a fool sometimes,
too self-willed for anything. She's like a man. She
just does what she wants to do. Now will you help me ?

ISAAC (weakly). Vot can I do ?

MR LEVISON. Does she go out with anyone else,
tell me ? How did you guess the furs came from me ?
You know a lot, I expect.

ISAAC. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't.

MR LEVISON. Surely you want to help your daughter,
don't you ?

ISAAC. How do I know dot I am helping her ?
She told me often and often not to int erf ere.

MR LEVISON. But you must interfere, man. You

231

ISAAC AND REBECCA

must get her to be true to me. I'll give her more
than anybody else.

ISAAC. So you say.

MR LEVISON. If you'll help me all you can, I'll help
you, give you an allowance, make it easy for you.

ISAAC. Vot can you do more dan de doctors, and
dey can't do noting. My head he ache and you cannot
take it away. I get weaker every day, you can't
make me stronger. I vish I could leave Rebecca a
tocher ; but I can't. . . .

MR LEVISON (shrugs shoulders). But, Isaac, tell me.
Rebecca was to have dined with me to-night. She did
not come. I waited nearly an hour, and then I motored
here. Where has she been in the meantime ? Did
she come here to-day at three ?

ISAAC (the old man tosses his head wearily as if
fatigued). I don't know : I vos sleeping.

MR LEVISON. May I go into her room and look ?
It is in there ? Isn't it ? (Pointing to a door.)

ISAAC (lifting himself in bed). You must not, you
must not. She vould leave me altogether den.

MR LEVISON (looks at him angrily and shrugs his
shoulders). Damnation !

ISAAC (awakened again). Vot did you give her
besides furs ?

MR LEVISON. Oh, I don't know — dresses, whatever
she wanted.

ISAAC (nods his head). Did you give her jewellery —
a golt bracelet ?

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

MR LEVISON. No. Has she one ?

ISAAC. Who gave her de bracelet ? My little girl !

MR LEVISON. A bracelet 1 (He stands still.) Come,
Isaac, you know more than you say. Tell nie, who
gave it her ?

ISAAC. I know nozing. I don't know if she have
bracelet. Rebecca's all right. Vy you bozzer me ?

MR LEVISON. My God ! My God ! (Taking a sudden
resolution, sits down by the bed.) Look here, Isaac.
I'll marry her ; I will, by God ! I can't live without
her. I'll marry her at once. Don't you say anything
about what you have said to me. But when she comes
home, forbid her to go out again in the evening. Be
firm. Say it is not kind to you. She's got a great
affection for you. Say it's wrong to leave you alone,
and I'll marry her, by God ! I will. I always intended
to since I knew I was the first. Now my mind's made up.

ISAAC. Rebecca's mind, perhaps he's not made up.

MR LEVISON. What do you mean, Isaac ? You
don't think she'll leave me in the lurch, and marry
someone else, do you ? You don't mean to says it's
gone as far as that ? Oh, my God, my God ! Who
is it ? Tell me ? Do !

ISAAC. I know nozing. I've alvays told de trut.

MR LEVISON. All rot, that talk. You're damn
cunning. You know a great deal more than you say.
Why do you think she won't marry me ?

ISAAC. I know nozing. I tink if I vere a man tree
times her age, like you, I'd marry her quick. All

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

girls like marriage. You'll put it off and off. She
say nozing, but she's very proud.

MR LEVISON. My God ! I believe you're right, I've
been a fool. She's everything I want — pretty, clever,
and knows more than anybody'd guess. Will you fix
it up, Isaac ? Say you want her to marry me.

ISAAC. No, you must do that. Vy not vait for
her, and say it yourself, or come in de morning ?

MR LEVISON. Which would be the better day ?
One hardly knows what to do with her. She might
be angry if I waited, and yet I hate to go away. What
do you think, Isaac ? Should I wait now, or should
I come in the morning ?

ISAAC. I tink to-morrow; to-morrow is anozer
day.

MR LEVISON. Well, I'll go now and come back
to-morrow, but put in a good word for me, Isaac;
you'll see I can be grateful — later ! (Goes.)

VIII

(About midnight, REBECCA, in Russian sables, comes
into her father's room.)

REBECCA. You awake, father ? Mrs Goldschmidt's
asleep. I thought I'd come in and see how you
are.

ISAAC. I'm awake, tear, I am awake; but vere
have you been ?

REBECCA. I have been to the theatre.

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ISAAC AND REBECCA

ISAAC. Really ?

REBECCA. Really ? Why shouldn't I tell you the
truth ? It's too much trouble to tell lies.

ISAAC. Vy didn't you go mit Mr Levison to
dinner ?

REBECCA (quickly). Has he been here ?

ISAAC. Yes, my tear.

REBECCA. Well, what did he say?

ISAAC. Oh, he say a lot of tings. He vant to know
vere you vere. I told him I did not know. He
ask me vether you vere mit anybody else ? I told
him I not know.

REBECCA. That was right. I'll make Mr Levison
pay for prying.

ISAAC. Oh, I vould not, Rebecca; I vould not.
He's a rich man, and means good to you. He vants
to marry you.

REBECCA. To marry me ! He didn't say so ?

ISAAC. He vill propose. Oh, he's mad after you,
mad. He vill propose, he say so. He vanted to vait
for you to-night

REBECCA (her eyes narrowing). Because I did not
meet him once or twice. He always wants to talk
about himself and I want to go to the theatres and the
opera. Oh, the opera ! (And she daps her hands.)
What else did he say to you, father ? Tell me every-
thing.

ISAAC. Oh, he said he gave you ze furs.

REBECCA. But how did he come to say he'd marry

235

ISAAC AND REBECCA

me ? What made him say that ? He has never said
it to me.

ISAAC (wearily). I don't know. I asked him did
he give you ze golt bracelet. He say "No," and ask
me who gave it you ? I say I don't know.

REBECCA. The bracelet ? But no one has given
me any bracelet. Why should anyone give me a
bracelet ?

ISAAC (he shrinks). Don't be angry mit me,
Rebecca, but I saw you mit a bracelet vonce and I
thought perhaps he had given you the bracelet.

REBECCA (laughing). You amuse me. Don't you
recognise your own things, you silly dadda ? I got
a chain from your tray, from underneath, and rolled
it round four times into a bracelet.

ISAAC (sitting up in bed, excited). Dat's vot made
him mad : dat's vy he vant to marry you : dat's vy.

REBECCA (nods her head). Oh, you clever, clever
dad ! You made him jealous. You clever dad,
who would have thought you'd bring him up to the
scratch ?

ISAAC. I did it not on purpose. It vos jest chance,
or perhaps Gott, Rebecca — ze Gott of our faders !

REBECCA. Anyway, it's a bit of all right. (Laughs
triumphantly.) I've always heard that God helps
those who help themselves.

236

A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

CHARACTERS

LADY BETTY MORRISON. A pretty woman of about thirty.
ANTOINETTE. Her maid, a French girl of about twenty.
SIR JOHN MORRISON. An Englishman of about fifty,

inclined to be stout, healthy-looking, weU-dressed.
JEANNE. A stout peasant woman of about forty, the

Curl's servant.
WILLIAM. A chauffeur.

SCENE: A pleasant villa on Cimiez looking down on

Nice.

LADY BETTY. Does this hat suit me, Antoinette ?

ANTOINETTE. Oh, perfect, milady ; milady is beauti-
ful in it, and the rose, she sets off milady's pallor.

LADY BETTY (studying herself in the glass). It •
to me a little too large.

ANTOINETTE. Oh no, milady. Milady's height carries
it off ; it is a picture.

LAUY BETTY. We are going to lunch in Monte Carlo
and shall certainly not be back before dinner. You
can have the whole day to yourself, Antoinette, till
seven o'clock.

ANTOINETTE. Oh, thank you, milady. I was going

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A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

to ask milady something. My sister she has a child,
a new-born child, and I wanted to go and see her.

LADY BETTY. Oh, of course ; do you want more than
a day ?

ANTOINETTE. Oh no, milady: she is at Escarene
— about four leagues up in the mountains. It is her
first child.

LADY BETTY. Oh, how interesting ! What a lucky
woman ! How I should like to see it.

ANTOINETTE. Lucky, I don't know. Her husband
is only a garde champetre. They are poor. A child
— that costs money— and it takes away from the
work.

LADY BETTY. What matter, what matter ! I would
give anything for a child, anything in the world ! Oh,
I must see it. When can I see it ?

ANTOINETTE. Milady could drive to Escarene one
day. But it is only a village lost among the mountains.
The road goes up and up all the way, following the river
Paillon.

LADY BETTY. But how will you get there and back ?
You cannot go twelve miles and back in an afternoon.
I'll give orders for you to take the small car : John
will drive you. You shall visit your sister in state, and
tell her from me that I will come and see the baby one
day, if she will let me. Is it a boy or a girl ?

ANTOINETTE. A boy, milady.

LADY BETTY. Oh, lucky woman. What luck ! Ah !
to have a boy ; her first child a boy, what luck !

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A MIRACLE AND NO \VONDER

ANTOINETTE. The poor — they have too much of such
luck, milady.

LADY BETTY. And the rich too little. Ah ! (Sighs.)
(She begins putthig on her gloves and ANTOINETTE
tidies up the things.)

ANTOINETTE. I thank milady for the automobile
I think all Escarene will stare at me.

LADY BETTY. What age is your sister ? I thought
you told me once that she was thirty — as old as I am'.'

ANTOINETTE. Oh, milady, she is older than you ; and
she looks ten years older. Poverty ages.

LADY BETTY. And she has not been married a year
yet?

ANTOINETTE. Oh no, milady, not quite a year yet

LADY BETTY. What luck, what wonderful luck!
Tell her I will come and see her son. (Sweeps out
of the room.)

LADY BETTY (dressing for dinner). Did you see your
sister, Antoinette ?

ANTOINETTE. Oh yes, milady; thanks to milady's
kindness, I had three hours at Escarene — I saw my
inulhrr. too.

LADY BETTY. Is the boy healthy ?

ANTOINETTE. Oh, it is a great fat baby.

LADY BETTY. And your sister, is she in bed still ?

ANTOINETTE. Oh no, milady, it is a week ago, and
she is up and working. She could not stay in bed.
Who would do the work ?

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A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

LADY BETTY. And well again ?

ANTOINETTE. She looks a little pale, but she is quite
well. She will soon get strong again in that air.

LADY BETTY. Did you say that one day we shall
go up and see the boy ? (Rises. )

ANTOINETTE. She will be very pleased and proud,
milady — I have something to say to milady, if she
really goes to Escarene. Milady says she wants to have
a child. There is a way, I think.

LADY BETTY (pauses). A way ? What do you
mean ? Of course I want a child. Sir John wants a
boy to inherit all the money and the estate, and I have
no child and we have been married five years. What
way do you mean ?

ANTOINETTE. When I was at Escarene, I had three
hours there, so I went to see my mother also, and I
spoke to her of milady, how kind milady was and how
milady wants a child. And my mother says all she must
do is to go on a pilgrimage to the Monastery of La
Madonna la Bona Dea, the country people call her,
beyond Sospel.

LADY BETTY. What do you mean, Antoinette ?

ANTOINETTE. My mother, she tell me all about it,
milady. When a woman of the country not have a
child, she go to the monastery away up in the moun-
tain beyond Sospel and then she walk seven times round
the church, praying at all the shrines, and each time
she say the Ave Maria, to the Holy Mother, and then
she get a child, sure, sure !

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A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

LADY BETTY. Really. It is all superstition, I'm
afraid. But we might go one day.

ANTOINETTE. Surely, if milady wishes, we could go.
And it is true. My mother she know many ca
she say, and all get child after one visit.

LADY BETTY (in a depressed voice). But I'm not a
Catholic, Antoinette.

ANTOINETTE. Oh, that makes no difference, milady ;
believe or not believe, it make no difference.

LADY BETTY. But tell me what one is to do. Nothing
but go seven tunes round the church and pray once at
every shrine and say an Ave Maria before the Madonna ?

ANTOINETTE. Yes, milady, and then you must go to
the sacristy and confess to one of the monks, who will
give you absolution for everything, and then you come
out and go home and you are sure of a child. Sure, sure,
my mother says. It never fails.

LADY BETTY. You say the monastery is beyond
Sospel. Sospel is past Mentone, isn't it ?

ANTOINETTE. Yes, milady would have to start early.

LADY BETTY. You would have to come with me,
Antoinette; I could never go alone. I have a good
mind to ask Sir John.

ANTOINETTE. I would not tell Sir John, if I were
milady. It is better a woman keep all those things
to herself. Tell the men nothing, or they'll know as
much as we do in the end.

LADY BETTY (clasping a bracelet). Yes, perhaps you're
right. I don't think it's necessary to say anything.

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A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

We might get away next Thursday. Sir John is going
to the pigeon-shooting match. I would not go with him
for anything. How men can see poor little birds rise
from a trap and shoot them down I can't imagine.
It is horrible. That is why I will not stay in Monte
Carlo. I cannot bear even to hear the bang, bang,
bang of the guns.

ANTOINETTE. Milady is so kind. When she have a
child she will pet it all day long.

LADY BETTY (clasping her hands). Oh, do you think
I shall, do you really think I shall ? It would be too
wonderful. I shall be so happy !

(SiR JOHN MORRISON on the point of leaving the
breakfast-room. )

SIR JOHN. I'll take the little Peugeot, then. It'll
run me over to Monte in half-an-hour, and I'll leave you
the big car and William. He will take you anywhere
you want to go. I suppose you'll go visiting or some-
thing ?

LADY BETTY (a little nervously). Yes, I'll pay visits,
I think.

SIR JOHN. You see, I cannot help going. Hugh
Harrison is to shoot. I've known him a long time, and
he's pretty useful with a gun. I'd like to see him win
the Grand Prix.

LADY BETTY. If he has only gamekeepers against him,
as you say, he's sure to win : isn't he ?

SIR JOHN. Most of the Italians are gamekeepers, I

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A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

believe, and they practise night and day. The English
aren't used to this confounded glare. The Italians
have won seven times in the last ten years. They are
sure to beat us in the long run. You see, we are
only amateurs, and they are professionals. That's
why we English are getting beaten in everything.
We're only amateurs. As long as it was a fight
between amateurs we beat the world, but since these
Italian chaps have made shooting a business they
beat us.

LADY BETTY. You're not going to shoot, are you ?

SIR JOHN. No, I should have no earthly. I was
runner-up in the Poule d'Essai, but that was more good
luck than anything else.

LADY BETTY. I'm sure you're as good a shot as any
of them. Bring Harrison to dinner if you can. I
should like to hear who wins to-day.

SIR JOHN (preparing to go out). I will. But I'll
be back before six. I could be back to tea at five if
you liked ?

LADY BETTY. Oh no, don't trouble; you know you
don't care for tea. I may have tea out somewhere.
I intend to have the whole afternoon to myself. So
you need not be back before eight — till dinner-time, in
fact. (SiR JOHN kisses her.)

SIR JOHN. I'll be back before eight, good-bye.

LADY BETTY (hesitating). I wonder if I ought to go.
My heart's beating : I am quite excited. I suppose
I had better ring for Antoinette, and start almost

245

A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

immediately. There goes the Peugeot and John. I
wonder if it is wrong. I'll ring for Antoinette. (In a
moment ANTOINETTE comes into the room dressed to
go out.) Oh, you are ready, Antoinette ?

ANTOINETTE. Quite ready, milady, and William's
ready, too. I told him to be prepared to go a long
distance. If monsieur have gone by the lower road to
Monte Carlo we ought to go by the Grand Corniche to
Mentone, and so avoid Monte Carlo. Shall I bring
milady her hat down here ?

LADY BETTY. Are you sure you know just what I
ought to do ? Even then I don't believe anything'll
come of it. ...

ANTOINETTE. Oh yes, something'll come, I feel it.
I know all zere is to do. Milady need have no fear at
all • the monks are very nice men, and I'll go round the
church with milady.

LADY BETTY (given over to her thoughts). Hurry,
then, Antoinette. Bring me my things, and we'll
start.
(Two hours later, a small country inn in the mountains.)

LADY BETTY. But, Antoinette, this is not a church
or a monastery ; this is an inn.

ANTOINETTE. The church, milady, is just round the
corner. If milady will get out here and just go into a
room for a few minutes, I will go and find out every-
thing, and then I'll come back for milady.
(LADY BETTY leaves the auto, and goes to a room as the
maid requests. Alone she gets nervous.)
246

A MIRACLE AND NO WOXDKR

LADY BETTY. I do lmp<- it's all i-i-ht. I know Sir
John wants a boy more than anything, and so do I.
Now I'm here I might as well go through with it. It
would be too childish to turn back. It cannot do any
harm to pray in a Catholic church.

ANTOINETTE (coining in). Oh, milady, I have bad
news. The monastery has been what you call dis-
established, the monks they have all gone away. Un
grand malheur ! We have our journey for nothing.

LADY BETTY. But the church is there, Antoinette.

ANTOINETTE. Oh yes, milady; the church is there,
but the monks have gone and to confess hi the sacristy
is impossible.

LADY BETTY. What does that matter ? We can go
round the church and pray at the shrines.

ANTOINETTE. Oh yes, milady (staring); we can do
that, but the monks have gone ; the miracles have all
ceased 1

LADY BETTY. Now I have come, Antoinette, I think
I'll go to the church and pray.

ANTOINETTE. As milady wishes, but I will go and see
to whom milady can confess.

LADY BETTY. You must come with me to the church.

ANTOINETTE. Oh, I will go to the church with milady,
and then I will leave "milady and go and see if there is
a cur£ : milady must confess to someone.
(They go togetfier 1o the church. ANTOINETTE takes LADY
BETTY in and points out to her the three chapels
in all of which she must pray, and the High Altar
247

A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

at which she must say an Ave Maria, then she

whispers to LADY BETTY.)
ANTOINETTE. I'll be back in half-an-hour.
(In half-an~hour LADY BETTY comes out of the church

and meets ANTOINETTE, who has brought the auto.

to the door of the church. LADY BETTY is a little

rapt.)

ANTOINETTE. The Cure, milady, lives a mile away.
I thought milady had better go in the automobile, but
milady must go alone. My mother she says the lady
must go alone to the monks to confess, or else there will
be no miracle. So I wait here for milady.

(LADY BETTY gets into the automobile and is whirled away. )
WILLIAM (at the door of the auto. ). This is the parson's
house, my lady (pointing to the door of a small house in
the middle of a garden.)

(LADY BETTY gets out and goes up to the door. WILLIAM
drives the car past the house in order to turn round.
LADY BETTY knocks. JEANNE comes to the door.)
LADY BETTY. Is the Cure in ?

JEANNE (impressed in spite of herself by LADY BETTY'S
dress and the automobile). No, madame. He is not in.
He will be in in half-an-hour.

LADY BETTY (taking out her purse and selecting a
louis, which she hands to the woman, who stares at her
in amazement). I want to see him ; may I come in ?
JEANNE. Certainly, if madame pleases.
(They enter the house.)
248

A MIRACLE AND XO WONDER

LADY BETTY. I would not have come but the monas-
tery is closed, and I have prayed in the church.

JEANNE (in the middle of the room). Oh, madam< is
one of those ?

LADY BETTY (smiles affably). I have been married
some time and have no child, and my maid Antoinette,
who is half Italian and half French, told me that if I
made a pilgrimage here and prayed round the church
seven times I should get a child, and so I came here —
will the miracle take place, do you think ?

JEANNE (disdainfully). But, my good lady, those
games are all over now. The monastery was shut last
summer. The monks were all turned out. There are
no more miracles now. There is no one in the monas-
tery but a couple of sisters from Nice, so you can guess
there are no miracles with them.

LADY BETTY (vaguely annoyed by the familiarity of
the woman, and not understanding her patois). Of course,
I know, being a Protestant, it may be difficult for me.
But I have prayed at all the shrines, and before the
Madonna, and I went seven times round the church,
and Antoinette said that if I saw the Cur6 and confessed
to him it would be all the same as confessing to one of
the monks.

JEANNE (loudly). What impudence ! I should like
to see that Antoinette. She must have impudence, that
girl ; let her come and talk with me — I'll teach her.

LADY BETTY. I don't understand you. Why should
you get angry ? Doesn't the Cur£ hear confessions, or

-49

A MIRACLE AND NO WONDER

do you think because I'm not a Catholic I have no
right to be helped ?

JEANNE (sulkily, yet still impressed by the visitor's
calm politeness). M. the Cure hears confessions, of course,
in the church, in the usual way. But that is not the
same thing as the monks ; surely, surely, madame sees
that?

LADY BETTY (shaking her head). I don't understand
you (looking at her with large open eyes) — not in the very
least.

jEANNE(a£ lengthrealises a part of the visitor's innocence
and draws nearer to her confidentially). Mais, ma bonne
dame. It is clear, isn't it ? The monks were all young,
strong men, who had nothing to do but eat and hear
confessions. Ah ! so long as they were here miracle
followed miracle ; and no wonder. Ah ! I should think
so indeed. But the Cure, my man, he's sixty ; it isn't
the same thing — and you're not one of those.

LADY BETTY. But I have prayed at all the shrines,
and now I want to confess.

JEANNE (shrugs her shoulders). If the lady wishes to,
of course, but there are no miracles now ! Since the
fathers went away and the sisters came, there are no
more miracles. That was to be expected, eh ? Sisters
can't work such miracles.

LADY BETTY (flushing). Oh ! I don't think I'll wait,
thank you. Good-day. (Passes out abruptly without
another word.)

250

A FOOL'S PARADISE

WESTBURY and Clayton had been friends
since their student days. Westbury was a
general practitioner, who, in twenty years,
had brought it to Harley Street and comparative riches.
Clayton, on the other hand, had been well off even as
a student, and had specialised as soon as he could.
After getting his degree in London he had spent five
years in German Augen-Kliniken, and was now one of
the first oculists in London, and esteemed even in Berlin
and Vienna. He cared little for money and much for
his craft, and as he grew older the scientific side of
his work became an art to him of engrossing interest.
The two men were dissimilar in looks, as in purpose
and mind. John Westbury was an ordinary, short, stout
Englishman, with an irregular, strong face and kindly
brown eyes ; he liked his profession, except the getting
up at night, and he worked hard because he wanted to
leave his wife and children well provided for, and was
energetic by nature. His chief pleasure was a night at
a music-hall or a game of golf. Clayton, on the other
hand, was unmarried, slight and tall, with hatchet face,
thin features, and visionary grey eyes which had a sort
of mesmeric attraction for some women and children.
He found it impossible to make new friends, a sort of

253

A FOOL'S PARADISE

shyness having grown upon him through his absorptio n
in his art ; but he loved to motor about the country at
random ; and when he could get Westbury to accom -
pany him he was delighted, for Westbury not only re-
called his past youth to him, but made the present vivid
with stories and scraps of practical experience.

In the August of 1908 the two friends were on a
motor drive through the south of England. They
took it very leisurely, going hither and thither as
fancy or whim directed. A week of such vagrancy had
rather bored Westbury, who always wanted some
purpose even in pleasure. He could not help preferring
the known comforts of life to the untried distractions ;
he suddenly proposed that they should go to Winchester
and visit the cathedral and school. He thought it would
be a good opportunity to decide whether the school
would suit his eldest son, of whom he was inordinately
proud. Clayton assented, though a definite intention
when he was pleasuring annoyed him like a straight
road. They spent the night in a very prim hotel in
Winchester, and in the morning went over the school
and saw the wooden platters the boys ate from, and
were amused to hear how the scholars arranged the
mashed potatoes round their quaint plates so as to keep
the gravy within bounds. After an hour or so in the old
world surroundings they got into the car again, and went
out to Holy Cross and tasted the thin beer and bread
given in alms now to every wayfarer for some five
hundred years. Westbury wished to visit the cathedral,

254

A FOOL'S PARADISK

but Clayton proposed to drive somewhere into tin-
country and take pot-luck for lunch. Westbury hated
pot-luck ; but as Clayton had yielded to him in almost
everything day after day, he felt he must risk it, especi-
ally as the chauffeur assured him that he knew a place
near Petersfield where one could get a very good lunch
indeed. The chauffeur's promise was more than ful-
filled, and after an excellent plain meal the two men
mooned down the village high street that straggled
about as if it, too, were without purpose in the
world.

Of a sudden, just where the street broke into the open
country, they came upon a knot of boys making fun of
a youth who stood with his back to a gate laughing.
Westbury's attention was immediately caught by
the unusual spectacle. He questioned one of the
urchins.

44 It's only Clarence Jones," said the boy. " He's
not right, sir ; he's funny, and he do say funny things ;
he talks and laughs at himself, and that makes we
laugh."

4 You oughtn't to tease him," said Westbury.
44 Where does he live ? "

With his mother, there," said the boy, pointing to
a homely little cottage a hundred yards from the road,
wit! i a few trees about it.

44 He doesn't look like an idiot," said Westbury to
Clayton, who seemed to take no interest in the boy's
explanation.

255

A FOOL'S PARADISE

" No," Clayton admitted, waking up ; "a well-
formed head. Is he an idiot ? "

" They say so," replied Westbury carelessly. " A
merciful providence, isn't it, that so many idiots seem
to be happy ? This fellow appears to be highly
amused."

" Rather unusual, isn't it ? " asked Clayton, looking
at the idiot more intently. " There seems to be a sort
of meaning in his laughter. I wonder whether he is
an idiot ? "

" Of course he is," Westbury decided. " No sane
person would stand there to be mocked at and laugh
with delight."

Clayton did not appear to be convinced, for he went
over to the youth and began to talk to him, examining
him the while covertly. Westbury, on the other hand,
followed his bent by trying to find out from the gang
of boys all about Jones.

It appeared that his mother was the widow of a game-
keeper, who had been beaten to death one night by
poachers. Westbury scented a tragedy, and was eager
to learn all about the case ; but the urchins had not
much to tell him.

Strange to say, Clayton appeared to be peculiarly
interested in the idiot.

" A most extraordinary case," he said, returning to
Westbury. " I want to examine him properly. I
should like to talk with his father."

" He's only got a mother," replied Westbury ; " but

256

A FOOL'S PAKADISI.

we could go and see her. I expert she'll he delighted
to see you if you think \<>u can do anything for him.
What do you make of him ? "

44 I want to examine him," repeated Clayton.

'* There is not much to be done with him." re-
marked Westbury. "He's been an idiot from birth,
,ir."

Just then the idiot appeared to notice Westbury for
the first time, for he broke into peals of wild, hysterical
laughter, bending down and rubbing his legs with his
hands in uncouth gestures of delight.

44 He's as mad as a March hare," exclaimed Westbury,
with a certain natural irritation.

44 He may be," Clayton admitted, 4t but let's go and
see the mother."

.Mis Jones was a thin, neatly dressed woman, whose
speech was much above her position in life. She had
good eyes and forehead, and the small, regular features
showed traces of prettiness, but her expression was
subdued and anxious. When told by Westbury that
they were two doctors, and that they took an interest
in her boy, 44 At least, my friend here, the great oculist,
dors," she invited them into her cottage, and at
Clayton's request showed him into the little parlour
in order that he might examine her son at his ease.
\Yestbury preferred to stay with the mother in the
little porch and finish his cigar.

He soon heard her whole story. Her husband, a
great, strong man, head gamekeeper to the lord of the
R 257

A FOOL'S PARADISE

manor, had been brought home nineteen years before
with his head battered in.

" There must have been three or four at him," she
declared proudly. " He died in that room in the
morning just as the nurse came ; I was only half con-
scious— silly-like. When I saw them carry him in with
his poor head all blood I seemed to turn cold inside.
I went all dazed. I was expecting my baby, sir, and
was not very strong. ... I suppose I was out of my
head, for when I got to notice things he had been
buried two days " — she wiped her eyes and sniffed —
" and I was all alone with my daughter and the
baby. . . .

" The old squire has been very good to me. He has
allowed me ten shillin' a week ever since, and this house
rent-free. Oh ! he's been very kind always ; and my
daughter married a draper at Alton, and is very well
off. She and her husband, Mr 'Arding, a very superior
man, a gentleman, as you might say, often drive across
of a Sunday to see me. It's his own trap, kept private.
. . . I'm quite comfortable, though it's lonesome here.
You see, I was lady's maid in London before my
marriage, and this cottage seems very lonely-like. . . .
I'm always grieving about Clarence ; he was such a dear
big baby. He never cried in his life ; but just when he
ought to have begun learning his letters and noticing
things he took to this laughin'. ... If your friend
could cure him we'd all be thankful, I'm sure, though
Clarence is not so silly as you'd think. . . .He is wonder-

258

A FOOL'S PARADISE

ful sensible sometimes . . . and he always does what
I tell him. . . ."

Westbuiy comforted her as best he could, and talked
of other things, wondering in himself the while what on
earth Clayton could find in the idiot to keep him so
long.

Suddenly the door of the parlour opened, and Clayton
beckoned to them. Westbury preceded the widow into
the little room. The idiot again burst into his hideous
cachinnation at the sight of Westbuiy, doubling himself
up with laughter. The mother walked over to him and
stroked his head, saying :

'' You must not laugh at the gentleman, Clarence ;
it's rude to laugh."

Clarence evidently understood, and tried to obey.
He stood with twisted face, giggling, trying his best
to control himself.

44 A most remarkable case, Mrs Jones," said Clayton.
41 1 don't know yet, but I'm inclined to think I can cure
your son and make him like other boys."

The mother's face flushed, and she put up her hand
as if to ward off the shock. 44 Really, sir ? " was all
she could say.

44 I'm not sure, you know," Clayton went on. 4t I
don't want to lift your hopes too high, but the boy seems
to me sensible enough were it not for this laughing."

" That's it, that's it, sir ! " cried the mother, stretch-
ing out both her hands. 44 He's sensible underneath,
is Clarence, and as good as gold. He's never any trouble

A FOOL'S PARADISE

at all, and he understands any questions I ask him :
don't you, Clarence dear ? "

The boy looked at her and began to laugh quietly, as
if amused by the question.

" I shall have to see him in London," Clayton ex-
plained, " and make a closer examination. I must get
a strong light on his eyes. Can you bring him or send
him up to me ? "

The woman hesitated.

46 If I decide that an operation is necessary I would
not charge you anything for it ; but I should have to
keep the boy for a couple of months to ensure a proper
recovery."

" It's very good of you, I'm sure," said Mrs Jones,
" and I'll tell my daughter what you say. Do you
think you can make him all light, sir ? " Her doubting
eagerness was pathetic.

" I'm inclined to think so," repeated Clayton.
" Here's my card, and if you decide to let me have a
try, I'd do my best."

" Thank you, sir," she said. " I'll tell all you say
to my daughter and her husband, and let you know."

As they walked toward the inn Westbury questioned
Clayton.

" What bee's got in your bonnet, Dave ? " he cried.
" Nothing on earth could do that idiot any good unless
you could put new brains into his head. What do you
mean by talking of an examination ? "

260

A FOOL'S PARADISE

14 It's a very peculiar case," replied Clayton, as if to
himself, his eyes turned inward in thought, " a most
interesting case" ; and then, waking up. " I'll let you
know about it if they send him to me."

" The only interesting thing I can see in the matter,"
rejoined West bury, " is the fact that the shock of seeing
her husband murdered made the poor woman give birth
to an idiot, and an idiot who laughs at everything.
Murderous cruelty producing idiot laughter — it's a ruin
world. . . ."

Some few months later Westbury called one after-
noon on Clayton and spent the evening with him in
his study overlooking Regent's Park. They had been
talking a few minutes when Westbury exclaimed :

" By the way, I hear you have had Clarence Jones
up here and worked a miracle on him."

'4 The operation was successful," Clayton admitted.

44 What was the matter with him, really ? You
B very mysterious about it."

44 Not mysterious," replied Clayton, 44 only doubtful.
I could not see his eyes properly at first, hut when I had
him here and examined him closely it was all pretty
plain sailing."

44 What was wrong with him ? " cried Westbury.
44 Did it explain that continual laughing of his ? "

44 It explained even-tiling/1 replied Clayton. 44 His
eyes were abnormal. You wouldn't meet another
pair like them in a lifetime. . . . There were little

261

A FOOL'S PARADISE

growths in the pupils, so that each eye had half-a-
dozen facets, so to speak. The boy saw every separate
object in half-a-dozen different aspects, just as if he were
looking into those concave and convex mirrors you have
in fairs. Nearly every object therefore was amusing
to him, though some things, of course, appeared elon-
gated and lugubrious. ... I had to remove all the
little growths one by one — rather ticklish work — and
give the pupil time to knit and heal, and the eye was
perfect."

" My God ! " cried Westbury, " what a magician's
wand that scalpel of yours is ; with it you turn an idiot
into an ordinary boy — and an unpleasant idiot at that,"
he added, a little malevolently. " His mother, I sup-
pose, is enchanted ? "

" She writes very nicely to me about it. She was
altogether a superior woman, you remember. ... I
have her letter somewhere," and he turned over some
papers on his desk.

" I suppose you'll be going down to see them ? "
remarked Westbury. " There's no pleasure like the
pleasure we have in a really wonderful cure."

" I'll run down some time in the summer probably,"
Clayton rejoined ; " but there is nothing to go for im-
mediately. The boy's eyes when I sent him home were
perfectly normal and strong. ..."

In the early spring Clayton was surprised and not
a little annoyed by a letter he received from Mrs

262

A FOOL'S PARADISE

Jones. She asked him to come down and see Clarence
as soon as he could. The boy was " out of sorts," she
said, and caused her great anxiety.

41 Out of sorts " Clayton could not understand

it. But as he practised chiefly for his own pleasure,
and had been really inteiested in the operation on the
boy's eyes, he took an early opportunity of motoring
to the village.

Mrs Jones met him at the garden gate.

" I got your telegram, sir, saying you were coining,"
she said hurriedly. "He's inside; but I must tell
you about him first. He's not happy, sir ; he's very
depressed and disappointed and angry—

" Angry," repeated Clayton ; " but not with me, I
hope ? " he asked, smiling.

14 With everyone," repeated Mrs Jones, " I'm sorry to
say, and with you, too, sir, very angry. You'll be
gentle with him, won't you, sir ? "

44 Of course, of course," replied Clayton, his mind
trying to grasp the new situation ; 44 of course I shall
be gentle. Everytl i ing's new to him, I suppose, and
st range ? "

44 That's it, sir : and he thinks everything's your
fault."

44 I'm very soriy. Let me see him at once," said
Clayton, really curious. 44 I'll do my best, you know."

In another minute the doctor and patient were face
to face. The \ out h stood in the corner of the room near
the fireplace, with averted face, glowering.

263

A FOOL'S PARADISE

" What is it, Clarence ? " asked Clayton pleasantly,
going towards him. " I hear you're unhappy."

The youth looked at him without a word, his face set
with rage ; and now that his eyes were normal one
could see that it was a fine face, well shaped and well
featured ; but the merry look had gone, and in its
place was scowling hate.

"What's the matter?" repeated Clayton, a little
shocked by the youth's manifest rage and dislike.

44 Matter ? " repeated the young man slowly. " I
suppose I ought to be grateful to you, oughtn't I ? " he
sneered.

" I should think so," replied Clayton, a little nettled;
" although I don't expect gratitude. I did my best for
you, and got nothing out of it."

44 Did I ask you to do anything for me ? " cried the
boy. 44 Who asked you to interfere ? "

" Anyone would do a kind act without being asked,"
Clayton answered gravely.

44 A kind act ? " cried the young man, seizing the
table with both hands and thrusting his hot face
forward. 44 A kind act, you call it ? "

44 Certainly," retorted Clayton ; 44 a kind act to turn
a laughing idiot into an ordinary youth. I should
think so indeed."

44 Ordinary be damned ! " cried the youth ; 44 ordin-
ary ! Till you came I was happy, happy as a king.
I was more than contented. Everything I saw was
wonderful to me. Even the boys who laughed at me

264

A FOOL'S PARADISE

and mocked me were comic creatures who amused me.
There they were, the grinning faces, dozens of 'em — all
different, too funny for anything. I was amused from
morning till night. My mother took care of me ; I
lacked nothing ; all my life was a dream of pleasure. . . .

44 Then you came where you were not wanted, and
with your damned cleverness robbed me of all the joy
and wonder, turned me from a kins? with all the world
for my fools into a dull, ordinary creature.

" Not ordinary even," he went on wildly, as if the
word excited him, " but behind everybody else, more
stupid. I cannot even go to school. I don't know
anything. Everyone pities and despises me now. Here
I sit all day long trying to learn to read and to make
pothooks. The devil could not have done worse to me

than you've done, you ." And the young man

threw himself into a chair and leaned his burning face
on his hands.

44 Come, come," said Clayton gently, going over to
him, genuinely affected by his misery. 44 Come, come,
Clarence, all this will pass. You will soon overtake the
other boys, and as soon as you learn to read easily you
will have books and all the wisest men as your com-
panions. You will soon see that you are better off."

44 Do you think I haven't told myself that ? " cried
the youth, looking up with streaming e " But it

is not true ; the charm and wonder of the world have
gone from me for ever. I shall never see the comic
faces again ; never again notice the thousand different

265

A FOOL'S PARADISE

shades of expression, never again. How could you ?
How could you ? . . . Oh, my God ! how miserable I
am!"

Clayton drew up a chair ; he was interested, in spite
of himself, by the bitterness of the youth's grief. He put
his arm around his shoulder.

" In a little while, Clarence, you will be able to study
all sorts of expressions, not only in the living people
about you, but in books. You will come to know all
the great men and women who have lived before you. . . .

" I have taken away from you an unreal world :
but you have got the real world instead, and it is an
infinitely richer world than the one you have lost, for
it holds all the past as well as the present. Think of
that." He spoke with infinite gentleness ; but the
youth would not be comforted. He looked up at him
with his face all shaken.

" You don't know, you don't know ! " he cried. " I
was happy, happy as a god in my own paradise, and now
I am outcast and miserable — less than nothing. Girls
came to me and wanted to know why I laughed at them,
what I saw in their faces ; and I saw such wonderful
things. Now nothing — every face is always the same ;
men and women — like the faces of sheep or cows —
nothing in them. Oh ! it is a dreadful world — common
and ugly and always the same. I hate it, hate it all.
. . . You robbed me of paradise, thrust me out into this
beastly ugly world ; and I had never done you any
harm — never, never. ..."

266

A FOOL'S PARADISE

He wept with such p;issi<m that Clayton began to
fear that he would make himself ill. After trying in
vain to cheer him with some commonplace remarks, he
left the room.

Mrs Jones met him with questioning, anxious eyes :
he nodded his head gravely.

44 It's worse than I thought, Mrs Jones. I want to
go and think it all over. A man may do great harm
with the best intentions ; but I think it will be all right
in time. He's an astonishing youth ; in time he'll get
accustomed to the change and find compensations."

" That's the worst of it, sir," cried the mother. " At
first he set to work and was not unhappy ; he worked
very hard at his reading and writing. Clarence has a
great deal of sense," she added ; "he often surprises
me by what he says. But as time went on he seemed
to find it harder and harder. . . .

44 He began to read the Bible, sir. I thought 'twould
do him good, and ever since he has talked about being
driven out of paradise and a devil with a flaming sword.
Sometimes I'm really afraid for his reason. You don't
think he'll go mad, do you, sir ? "

44 No, no," cried Clayton : l4 put that fear out of your
head ; his mind's all right, and if we can get his hope
and ambition roused, you'll be proud of him yet. I'm
very much interested in him."

She nodded her head feebly, doubtfully.

" Thank yon. sir. I had better go to him now.
After one of these fits he always has a bad headache. ..."

267

A FOOL'S PARADISE

Clayton went to the inn puzzled and annoyed. Re-
flection showed him no new argument, and when he
returned to the house after lunch the mother told him
that Clarence had gone to bed worn out, and was sleep-
ing, she thought. At any rate, she was sure it would
be better not to disturb him. Clayton returned to
London, promising he would write. . . .

During the next few days he thought a good deal
about the matter, and at length came to a decision and
wrote his patient a long letter. Before sending it he
went round to Westbury, in whose common- sense he had
a great deal of confidence. He told Westbury what
had happened, and asked him what he thought of the
youth and his paradise.

Westbury shrugged his shoulders.

" An ungrateful hound. If I were you I'd pay no
more attention to him. That's the sort of thanks you
get in life when you do good to people. ... I've had
dozens of similar experiences. I never look for gratitude
now, and never meet it. Men are ungrateful by nature,
and women spiteful to boot. Why should you bother
yourself ? You did everything for the best."

4 Yes, I know," replied Clayton dubiously; " and it
was my best. Yet the doubt torments me. The boy's
eyes smarted after the operation, and I gave him cocaine
to dull the pain. Surely it's my duty to diminish the
discomforts of life to him now. I've written him a letter
and I want you to hear what I've said. I must en-
courage him, you know. ... I'll not trouble you with

268

A FOOL'S PARADIS1

the whole screed— just the gist <>f it. 1 In-gin l>y telling
him that his experience is nut singular, though it's
uncommon. Every artist, every great man, begins 1 ire-
like an ordinary boy, and so long as he is commonplace
IK- is happy ; but when, bit by bit, he grows above other
nu n, he begins to see men and women as Clarence used
to M < t IK ni, in all sorts of comic lights and tragic lights
as well, and the pageant of life becomes infinitely in-
teresting to him. . . .

"Hut all his fellows resent his superiority and do
their best to pay him out for it ; they jeer at him and
insult him ; they hate him, in fact, and if they get a
chance they punish him dreadfully. . . .

" All great men, artists and thinkers alike, are agreed
that genius is a long martyrdom, that happiness is only
to be found in ordinary conditions and ordinary life. . . .

44 Success and praise and pleasure are all got by being
commonplace, by being exactly like the common run
of mankind, one of the many. . . .

44 You see," Clayton broke off, 44 1 insist on all this
to give him ambition and hope, to hearten him ; then
I go on :

4 But if, indeed, your earlier experiences were so
delightful that you can do nothing but pine for them
and desire them, you may win them all back again. All
you have to do is to set yourself to learn and to grow so
as to become wiser and gentler and more loving than
your fellows, and you will then see the faces of men and
women once again in a hundred different facets, and they

269

A FOOL'S PARADISE

will be all set to laughter or to tears. . . . But men and
women will hate you for your superiority and punish you
for it ; you will be thrust out of the paradise of ordinary
life, and be made an outcast and a pariah . . . the
vision splendid has to be paid for, and the price is
heavy.

270

THE UGLY DUCKLING

AFTER HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

MY earliest memories are neither very clear nor
very interesting ; but soon I became conscious
that I was unlike my brothers and sisters ; I
•rivw faster than they did, and, as soon as I out-topped
( lu in. t he tolerance they had hitherto shown me, ceased.
Instead of kindness I got nothing but blame ; whatever
I did they found fault with ; I was always getting in
their way, it seemed, and always being snapped at by
brother or by sister with reason and without. At first
1 didn't mind this much. With the unconsciousness of
youth I took it all as part of the game of life and paid no
particular attention to it, giving as good as I got. But
day by day the difference between us grew more marked,
and 1 soon be^an to notice that my brothers and sisters
were getting our mother on their side and putting her
against me. which made me very miserable.

In my wretchedness I would wander away from the
others, for I hated to show how they had hurt me, and
I took to swimming about in the lake. I was attracted
by the smell of a plant which only grew in rather deep
water, and when I tasted it, as young things do, I found
it scented and sweet, and infinitely more to my liking
s 273

THE UGLY DUCKLING

than the scraps of meat which the others were always
hunting for along the shore of the lake or at the back
doors of the ape folk. And this taste of mine seemed to
annoy my mother almost as much as it did my brothers
and sisters, who all declared that the plant I liked was
bitter and bad, and made them as sick as I am sure the
bits of offal did me. At first I couldn't for the life of me
see why I shouldn't eat what I liked so long as I didn't
interfere with the others ; but my mother told me it
was wrong to be peculiar, it was good to do what the
others did, and bad to act differently from them, which
seemed to me, I don't know why, senseless and un-
reasonable. But one day I was shown the matter from
her point of view.

My lonely wanderings had made me fond of going into
deep water, and I was soon a far stronger swimmer than
any of my brethren : one day I ventured to swim out
to the reed-fringed island in the centre of the lake, and
coast about it. There I found food of all sorts in pro-
fusion and of the very best, and nothing would content
me but I must return at once and tell the others of my
discovery. As luck would have it, our mother had gone
up the yard with our father the drake, and I soon per-
suaded the ducklings to follow me to the island. It
was a good way out and when we left the shelter of the
shore, the waves ran higher, and soon one of the little
ducklings was in trouble ; seeing that, I helped her,
and in a little while the whole brood came safely to shore.
But perhaps because they were tired, and a little afraid,

274

THE UGLY DUCKLIM;

they didn't like the food I showed them, and soon all
wanted to get home again. I was disgust ( -<1 \\ ilh them,
but too proud to beg them to stay and give the new place
a fair trial, so I stepped at once into the water and
[| to Mvim buck.

On the way back one duckling after another was
buffeted by the waves and got giddy, and in spite of all
my efforts, if our mother had not espied us and come
to my assistance, one or more of the brood must have
been drowned. As soon as we all reached the shore
our mother turned on me and upbraided me bitterly.
I was not only ugly and overgrown, but wicked as well.
She didn't know how I could be a child of hers : I was
all neck and legs, not like a nice round duckling at all ;
dirty green, too, in colour, and not fluffy and soft like
my pretty brothers and sisters. They were right to
call me " The Ugly Duckling " ; my conceit was in-
tolerable, and if she ever again caught me breaking
bounds and leading her little dears into danger, she'd
teach me it was dangerous to break her commands.

All this time she went on smoothing and petting the
little ones who seemed most knocked about ; but I
could see that the little beasts pretended to be more ex-
hausted t ban they really were just to get her sympathy,
and perhaps be favoured later with a dainty tit-bit or
two which she might discover. And this set me against
them almost as much as the delight they plainly showed
on hearing me scolded.

After that adventure they always called me names,

275

THE UGLY DUCKLING

"Long Neck," or "Black Shanks," or "Ugly Duck-
ling," or something, and I took to living more and
more by myself.

It soon became my chief pleasure to swim right out
amid the high waves, and soon I got to know every
nook and corner of the pond as well as the oldest drake.

When I came back after any of these expeditions I
was always blamed by my mother, who held me up now
as an example of all that was wild and wicked to my
brothers and sisters.

" You think you're very clever," she used to say,
" but one of these days you'll be properly punished for
your impudence. I'm sure I don't know how you come
to be a child of mine. I'm ashamed of you. You're
not like a nice obedient duckling at all."

This made me very unhappy, and I told her I thought
she was unkind, but she insisted that my brothers and
sisters were always right ; it was naughty of me not to
wish to be like them.

One day, however, they were all glad I was not like
them. We were at the edge of the pond, and I was
sunning myself on the sand, when a rough red terrier
came rushing down at us. All my brothers and sisters
ran together quacking and fluttering in huge dismay.
And though our mother went in front of them it was
perfectly plain that she too was frightened ; in fact, she
quacked them all into the water as soon as she could.
But I didn't see why we should all run away from one
little animal with four legs, and so I puffed out my wings

276

THE UGLY DUCKLING

to get them ready to strike, and to shield my neck, and
went towards the dog. As soon as he saw that there
was someone not afraid of him, he stopped in astonish-
ment and began to bark. I could not help hissing a
little in defiance, and to keep my courage up.

" Come on," I said.

He jumped around me barking, but it was quite easy
for me to turn and face him all the time. In a minute or
two he got tired, and then became a little ashamed of
himself, so he pretended to see something interesting
in the distance, and scampered off. When I turned to
the rest they were all in the water, and I thought they
would at least thank me, for by facing the dog I had
given them time to get into safety, and they all knew
that if it hadn't been for me some of them might have
been killed. I was a little proud of myself, and so was
the less prepared for the return they made me. As I
came towards them, after a last look at the terrier, my
brother Bill called out :

" Look at 4 Long Neck ' strutting about and showing
off."

And sister Jane cried : " No wonder the dog ran away:
he's so ugly." And they all laughed at the insult.

wt Those that have no courage needn't talk about
being ugly," I replied.

But my mother snapped me up.

41 You shouldn't speak so," she said, li and you
shouldn't be so proud ; it is nothing to be proud of, a
long neck."

277

THE UGLY DUCKLING

Her injustice hurt me so much that tears came into
my eyes, so I just walked into the water and swam
away out by myself. The moment I passed the usual
limit of shallow water, my brethren all quacked loudly
and made mother watch me, and she called me to come
back, but my heart was too full ; I cruised about by
myself.

A little while later she called us all to dinner, but I
didn't come ; I knew they were going to hunt about for
worms and pieces of meat and refuse in the farmyard,
and all that offal used to make me sick, so I said I wasn't
hungry. But my mother cried back that I was to come
in any case, I soon would be hungry. I replied that
then I would eat some of the reeds or the plants that
grew around the island in the middle of the pond, and
this was a signal for a new outburst.

" He thinks he's very fine," quacked Bill. " He is
a vegetarian and won't eat a nice tasty bit of
meat ; he wants to be different from everybody
else."

For all answer I began swimming out to the island
and let them jeer. From that day I took to going
about entirely by myself, and when I was lonely I just
swallowed my tears, and lived in my dreams.

One day I watched a hawk flying over a wood. I
thought it must be fine to fly so high ; and I began to
exercise my wings and soon took delight in flying all
round the island and then circling higher and higher
above the tops of the trees of the great wood. It was

278

THE UGLY DUCKLING

my chief pleasure, and from day to day I took more
joy in my strength of wing.

One day my brothers saw me coming down, and of
course told my mother, and she took me seriously to
task.

41 You'll fall and kill yourself one day," she said ;
44 besides, it's no proper ambition for a duck ; you don't
want to make yourself hard and leathery ; you ought
to be plump and soft and juicy."

I said I hated to gorge like the rest till I couldn't
waddle, but at this they all set upon me and began to
peck at me. Involuntarily I lifted my wings, and then
I struck, not hard, but just to keep them off. As luck
would have it I hit Bill, and he gave one loud squawk
and turned over on his back as if he were dead. My
mother flew to fondle him and called him every en-
dearing name she could lay her tongue to, and when he
got better she turned on me saying I was a great brute
to use my strength like that, and she would have nothing
more to do with me. Fancy injuring my little brother ;
only the lowest of the low would do such a thing ; she
hoped she'd never see me again.

I had gone into the water after the quarrel, but this
hurt me so much that I simply sprang from the water,
and in half-a-dozen strokes of my wings was out of
hearing.

From that day on I only saw them in the distance.
My life became very lonely ; I had no one to play with,
no one to talk to, no one to tell what I thought or felt.

279

THE UGLY DUCKLING

Indeed, almost the only amusement left me was the
pleasure of long flights. In a short time I found I could
fly for hours, and the fields of air became my playground ;
but I never ventured very high, for I remembered what
my mother had said about falling and killing myself.

How long this life went on, I don't know, but I grew
and grew so that I was ashamed of myself. I was
bigger than all my brothers and sisters put together,
and was not afraid of anything ; for one day a dog ran
at me and I struck him with my right wing, and he
went away limping, and yelping worse even that my
brother Bill. This filled me with pride, but I should
have liked to have had someone to tell it to.

It was the utter loneliness of my life which made me
take the next step. On the other side of the pond there
was a famous run and many broods of hens, who were
very proud indeed of their breed, the Anglo-Dorkings.
Unable at times to stand the misery of my lonely state,
I crossed the pond and took to mixing with these
creatures and listening to their talk.

An old hen, with many half-grown chickens, was the
first to speak to me, and I was astounded by the
gratitude I felt towards her, and the compliments I
paid her by way of thanks. I couldn't help smiling,
however, when she took all my praise as merited, and
confided to me that when young the biggest rooster in
the yard, an old Cochin with hairy legs, had called her
" The Angel of the World." This surprised me, for
she was both old and ugly and could never have been

280

THE UGLY DUCKLING

pn-lty, I thought. Two of her chickens were friendly
to me, but their brothers eyed me askance and at once
began to rag me for my tluck legs and the size and
shape ol' my feet.

The better I knew the hens, the less I liked them.
They were just as common and even coarser than the
ducks : they all ate greedily : and were cruelly selfish
and indifferent to others' pain. One day, I saw the
two pullets I liked flirting with some young roosters ;
when entreated too nearly they ran away, it is true, but
I saw that their flight was only pretended coldness put
on to increase the ardour of the suitors : in reality
they were both delighted.

The Anglo-Dorking life was even more formal and
tedious than that of the ducks. When the chickens
wanted to stretch their wings and fly, the mother hen
told them that it was very wrong, and when I argued
with her, I soon saw that she only said this in order
to have all her chickens about her, and so gratify at
once her vanity and her mother love. If I ventured to
suggest that all one's powers should be used, she flew
out at what she called my vile immorality, and assured
me that no child of hers would ever listen to such
wicked nonsense.

One day when the mother hen was talking to the old
I < •chin. I wandered with the rest down to the shore of
tiie lake. There the dancing cool water tempted me,
and I waded in and swam about rejoicing in my skill
and strength. One or two of the chickens ventured

281

THE UGLY DUCKLING

into the water in emulation, but they nearly got
drowned, and I had to spoon them out with my bill.
They were wretched little creatures who didn't even
know how to swim, and the cold water made them
very uncomfortable, and gave them colds. When the
mother hen came down and found them, she was very
angry with me, and told me she would have me
punished if I didn't behave myself better. I found
that the great law among the Anglo-Dorkings was to
do exactly what the others did, for if you took a way
of your own, they all condemned you as vile and bad.

I couldn't help asking myself whether there was
any sense in all their condemnations, and I soon dis-
covered that the fountain of their morality was pride
in themselves. They all really believed that whatever
the Anglo-Dorkings did was right, and the law of the
universe.

They even made God in their own likeness, and were
unconscious of the ridiculous absurdity.

As a race they were curiously self-centred and
quarrelsome, and all their own customs and habits
appeared to them to be sacred. They believed in
fighting about everything ; they decided questions of
government by a dispute between two parties, and in
their courts matters of right and wrong, truth and justice,
were settled by hiring paid liars on both sides to falsify
facts and give a plausible colouring to what was
iniquitous. They went so far as to explain what they
considered defects in the constitution of the universe

282

THE UGLY DUCKLING

by inventing tin evil deity which they called a devil,
and by pretending that god and the devil were u\\\
at war. Whenever any of them got ill through over
eating or drinking they ascribed the sickness to the
malefic power of the devil, and so got rid of the neces-
sity of blaming themselves and reforming their conduct.

Their chief amusement was a pitched battle between
two young males ; and their power of eating, which
they carried to gluttony, was not so highly esteemed
among them as courage. The Anglo-Dorkings didn't
talk so much or so loudly as the ducks : indeed, they
were rather silent except after a fight or birth or some
unusual occurrence ; then they crowed and bragged
and flapped their wings as loud as ever they could.

The habit these animals had of fighting seemed
brutal to me, and their bragging, flapping and crowing
absolutely ridiculous. When first I saw one of the
chief roosters crow for a quarter of an hour about
the Anglo-Dorking virtues in general and his own in
particular, I couldn't help laughing, which was taken
in very bad part : I was told that crowing indicated
proud eonsciousness of virtue, and I should respect it ;
but I knew quite well that their crowing was mere
vanity and had nothing to do with virtue.

At the same time their inordinate conceit and their
belief in their own virtue was the secret of their strength.

It gave them the power of banding together when
threatened by an enemy. When a rat once appeared
in the farmyard and wanted to make a meal off one

283

THE UGLY DUCKLING

of the little fluffy chicks, the hens stood together as a
rampart in defence, and the males went forward to
attack the intruder, who thought it best to get away
while he could. Even when a hawk hovered above
the yard, the hens, though they retreated, covered the
little ones with their wings, protecting them at the
risk of their own lives.

This conduct seemed to me admirable. The Anglo-
Dorkings were strong from this virtue of union, and
from a power of breeding that was quite extraordinary.
They were always bringing forth fresh broods, which
as soon as they grew up used to fend for themselves.

It was their conceit and clannish spirit that made
them formidable and at the same time made it difficult
for me, a stranger, to live among them ; true, they
didn't interfere with me much, being too intent on
their own affairs ; but as soon as I made them aware
of my existence by laughing at them for bragging, or by
begging them not to fight, they all fell upon me with
one accord, their clannishness being really wonderful.

One day they got up a fight, and the two males
chosen for the combat fought for nearly an hour.
Very soon, the older cock was over-matched, but all
his fellows encouraged him to go on, till he staggered
about the ring half blind, with strips of skin hanging
down his neck, and bleeding from a hundred wounds.
It was a dreadful and degrading spectacle, and the
faces of the bystanders showed such eagerness and
ghoulish satisfaction that I could stand it no longer.

284

THE UGLY DUCKLING

44 Stop, stop," I cried, "you brutes. Don't you see
Unit the poor thing has no chance, and can only
suffer ? "

At once all the Anglo-Dorkings fell upon me in fury,
and drove me out of the yard.

The more I knew of them, the clearer I saw that the
soul of them was self-esteem. One custom they had
which was ridiculously absurd, and yet it was plainly
the outgrowth of their extravagant conceit. There
was a poor skinny rooster, who was so old that he could
scarcely move ; his comb hung down about his neck,
and his tail feathers had all fallen out, and yet even
the youngest and handsomest hens went about him in
a swarm and made up to him, and flattered him in a
silly and disgraceful way. I couldn't understand the
reason of this, for the old rooster could never have been
even a moderately good specimen, and was now weak-
kneed and decrepit and querulously vain. When the
young hens courted him, and he tried to strut and crow,
he looked so pathetic and funny that I did not know
whether to laugh or cry. But the Anglo-Dorking hens
all frowned on me, and one of them told me I ought to
be ashamed of myself laughing at one of their lords.

41 What does that mean, a lord ? " I asked.

44 One of our rulers," she said.

44 But why does he rule?" I asked. 44 Was he
ever wiser or better than the rest of you ? "

44 Oh dear, no," she replied; 44 but we honour him

more."

285

THE UGLY DUCKLING

" But why ? " I asked. " What has he done ? "
" Nothing," she replied. " He's the son of his
father."

" I suppose he is," I answered. " But what did his
father do ? "

"Nothing," she replied. "That's his nobility."
I could not understand their reverence for useless
creatures ; but merely to question its validity got one
into disgrace with the Anglo-Dorkings. They resent
any criticism of their beliefs or customs, and they are
amusingly certain that all such criticism springs from
ignorance or inferiority. My questions about their
lords, and the reverence they paid them, caused them
to look on me with suspicion and dislike. They began
to call me a foreigner, and spoke of ducks as an inferior
species of creature. I didn't mind this much, for I felt
no desire to stand up for the ducks, who had cast me
off ; but when the Anglo-Dorkings began to insist that
my admiration for what was right and reasonable and
fair was a sign of shallowness, I began to answer back,
and the situation grew strained. They threatened
and I scoffed, for I was young, and it soon became
apparent that there would be an outbreak of violence.
I have already told how the ducks used to eat scraps
of offal. The custom seemed to me filthy and unhealthy,
but they excused it by pleading hunger. The Anglo-
Dorkings, however, went much further. They hung
dead meat up till it became putrid, and then gobbled
it down at feasts and ceremonial dinners. And when

286

THE UGLY DUCKLIM;

one turned from the loathsome mass, they used to
remark complacently that " only the well-born could
really enjoy the aristocratic flavour of high game."

I made fun of this argument, and thereby fell into
utter disgrace. In their anger they invented all sorts
of slanders about me. I had been expelled from
among the ducks, they said, for nearly killing one
of my smaller brethren, I lived, another story ran,
by stealing from the game larders. No invention
was too improbable, no lie too absurd for the
Anglo-Dorkings to believe about any creature who
ventured to criticise them.

I discovered incidentally that they had outlawed
and expelled some of their noblest and best for no other
reason than that these wise ones had dared to find
fault with some of their customs. Even a certain lord,
who in spite of his opportunities as a parasite and
hanger-on developed some individuality and courage,
was disgraced for making fun of them, and hounded
out of the country as immoral because he couldn't be
sufficiently hypocritical or servile to win their favour
by flattery.

At length, their animosity to me became active.
I was challenged to fight by this rooster and by that,
and as when I flew up high to evade attack they called
me a coward, and when I struck with the elbows of
my wings, with which I was able to hit hard, I was set
upon by the whole crowd for striking unfairly, and was
so bepecked and bespurred that I was glad to get away

287

THE UGLY DUCKLING

with whole bones. I fled for my life and they stood
together in a crowd and flapped their wings in triumph,
and crowed in unison for some time after I had passed
out of their sight.

Life became tragic to me in its loneliness. The
ducks feared me ; the Anglo-Dorkings hated me ; and
when I passed to the other end of the pond and met the
geese I only fared a little better. True, they were not
nearly so clannish as the Anglo-Dorkings ; they had
more respect too for originality and individuality.
I could never make out why they were called " geese,"
or rather why the word " goose " among the hens had
come to mean something foolish. For really these
geese were more intelligent and better educated than
the Anglo-Dorkings, or even the Cochins, and had a
far keener sense of what was reasonable as opposed
to custom and convention. Taking them all in all, I
thought the geese far superior to the Anglo-Dorkings in
many respects : they were more civilised, more reason-
able, and had a higher intellectual life ; they were not all
like peas from the same pod, indistinguishably alike.

In particular they found the hen morality as absurd
as I did ; and the hypocrisy and self -applause of the
Anglo-Dorking were as distasteful to them as to me.
I might have lived among the geese in comparative
happiness had I happened to be born a goose, but their
language was very difficult to me, and, in spite of all
my efforts, I never entirely mastered it and made it my
own.

288

THE UGLY DUCKLING

I took to living more and more by myself, and
resolved not to depend in any degree upon others.
After all, I used to say, consoling myself, the sky does
not belong to the Anglo-Dorkings, and the fields of air
and the sunshine by day, and the winds and stars by
night, were mine even more than theirs. If they had
made me an outcast and pariah, what after all did it
matter ? My life was mine to live as I chose, and the
days mine to spend as nobly as I pleased. And so I
accepted the life of a solitary, and grew strong in
loneliness, though always a little sad.

One day I was out in the pond when something
made me look up, and I saw a skein of great birds coming
down the sky ; the sun turned their wings to silver ;
and one lagged behind as if tired. When they neared
the wood I thought they would alight, but at the last
moment one gave a cry that was an order and they rose
again to clear it, and soon went high up in the blue and
dwindled away, but the weary one came beating down
nearer and nearer, and at last splashed in the water
close to the island. To my astonishment it was just
like me, but evidently very tired, so I went over to it,
and when I came near I saw that it was more graceful
than I was, with slighter neck and more rounded breast,
so I said :

" Good day. So you are an Ugly Duckling too."

She turned on me sharply. "Duckling, indeed?
You don't know what you are talking about ; I am
a swan like you."

T 289

THE UGLY DUCKLING

" Like me ? " I asked in amazement. And then in
a breath : " What is a swan ? "

" The finest bird in the world."

" Really ? " I cried. " I thought Anglo-Dorkings
were the finest birds."

" Little tame beasts," she replied scornfully, " fit
for nothing but to increase and multiply. I suppose
all this run is theirs : I would never have come into it
if I hadn't been very tired from our long flight."

" Why do you say that we swans are the finest birds
in the world ? "

" Because we are the Children of Light," she replied
proudly, " and follow the sun round the world."

" Where are you going next ? " I asked.

" To the other side of the world," she answered ;
" to the land of sunshine ; but now I am hungry," she
added, with a little worn smile.

" Oh, come with me," I said, " and I'll show you
where you can get such nice things to eat," and I
guided her round the island to my quiet eating place
under the trees, and there she ate and drank so daintily
I could have kissed her ; and then she preened herself
and made her toilet, while I watched her with eyes
round with admiration.

I saw she was very tired, so I asked her wouldn't she
like to sleep, and led her again to the quietest place
in the whole pond, and she said I must wake her before
the sun got low, for she must join the rest that night at a
lake far away. I kept watch while she slept, but all

290

THE UGLY DUCKLIN(.

the time my heart was burning within inc. for I knew
if she went away and left me I should die of grief.
Life by myself seemed ten times as lonely since I had
seen her and admired her delicious beauty, and I simply
couldn't bear her to go away and forget me. Tears
came burning into my eyes at the thought. Besides,
I too had always hated the darkness and gloom of the
dreary Northern winter ; though I had been taught it
was wrong to love the light as I did. Now, however,
that I knew it was right, I was filled with the desire to
fly far away and see the world and dare the Great
Adventure ; for I too was a Child of the Light.

Suddenly the resolve came. I would fly away with
her. My heart beat in my throat with the hope. I
knew I could remain on the wing for hours and hours,
all day long if I chose, for I was very hard and strong,
thanks to my lonely life. The thought of her thrilled
and encouraged me, and caressing her in my heart as
she slept I resolved to go with her if she would let me
to the end of the world. I felt a little sorry about
leaving the ducks, but after all they didn't care for
me. and I loved the new-comer in quite a different
way. She seemed to me grace itself and beautiful
exceedingly, and proud as a queen, and I wondered if
she would ever let me touch her with even the tips of
my wings.

While I was cruising about her quite silently and
watching her, the Swan woke and at once to my
astonishment began another toilet. She flirted the

291

THE UGLY DUCKLING

water over her shoulders and laughed as the drops
ran over her breast, and sparkled on her pearly
throat.

I asked her was she quite rested, and she said :
" Yes " ; and I wanted to know why she hadn't slept
till I woke her, and she said she supposed it was the
anxiety, because, now she had rested, she would have to
go on at once. She thanked me prettily for the food I
had given her, and said that really my resting place
near the island was very sweet.

Emboldened by her kindness I asked her could I
go with her. She turned to me, and said :

" Of course, if you like; there is nothing to prevent

you."

That wasn't what I wanted, so with a lump in my
throat I asked : " Would you like me to go ? " And
she looked at me a little while as if considering, which
frightened me quite cold, but when she saw how humble
I was she smiled and said bravely :

" I should like you to come because you are young
too, and the lake is such a long way off, and the
others are all older than me, and I get a little frightened
flying in the dark all by myself ; and sometimes I
scarcely know what to do when the wind gets high and
I am away up out of sight of earth."

"Oh, that must be fine," I cried. "I'm very
strong, and should like it above everything. It is
good of you to let me go with you. I will do everything
for you : I will be your servant, and I will cruise round

292

THE UGLY DUCKLING

you when you sleep to protect you, you are so lovely,"
I added, half afraid.

She shook her head a little at that, and said she
didn't like compliments. But I don't think she was
really displeased, for the next moment she looked at
me again with kindness.

44 We must go now," she said suddenly ; "we are
wast ing time," and the next moment sprang out of the
water into the air, and I followed. Up and up and up
she went in great rings, and I beside her, wing-beat for
wing-beat, but I had to restrain myself and beat slowly ;
for I was much the stronger and did not want to hurry
her. How glad I was now that my loneliness had
made me a Master. After we had gone steadily up
and up, in a great spiral, she cried to me :

44 Look down now and take leave of your duckpond."

As I looked down the great height frightened me,
for the pond was nothing but a grey speck in the green,
miles and miles below us, and my heart failed me, for
I remembered what the mother duck had said, that I
should fall one day and kill myself, and for one moment
I fluttered in the air, but as the Swan turned her head
to see what was the matter I struck out again, for I
was ashamed of my fear. I went right up beside her
with strong wing-strokes, exulting, for she was with me,
and it was better a thousand times, I thought, to be
killed falling from heaven than to live in a duckpond.

293

AUTUMN 1914
PUBLICATIONS

GRANT RICHARDS LTD

8 St. Martin's Street
Leicester Square, \V. C

8 St. Martini Street, Leicester Square, Il'.C.

October 1914.

GRANr RICHARDS Ltd.

have pleasure in announcing the
publication of the following Books,
some of which are ready.

LADY ANN'S FAIRY TALES. By
LADT CATHERINE MILNES CASK ELL.
ll'ith twelve illustrations in colour by Maud Tindal
Atkinson. Crown 4/0. buckram, gilt, in box, 2 is. net.

'lection of fifteen stories about fairies good and bad, about princes and
princesses, about magicians and enchantresses. They will delight readers
of all ages. The volume is enriched by twelve pictures in colour by Miss
Tindal Atkinson. By permission of Her Majesty it is dedicated to
T.K.H. 1'rince Henry and Prince George.

THE DOOR IN THE WALL AND
OTHER STORIES. By H. G. WELLS. With

ten illustrations reproduced in photogravure from photo-
graphs by Ahin Langdon Coburn. T/tere are only
100 copies for sale in Great Britain. Folio, 2 is. net.
%* Each of these 100 copies is numbered and signed.

ROMANTIC AMERICA. By ROBERT
HAVEN SCHAUFFLER, author of 'Romantic
Germany,' etc. With sixty illustrations. Royal %vo.
cloth, 1 6s. fief.

This volume will appeal alike to the traveller and to the stay-at-home.
To tin- recluse it hopes to bring some sort of • ihe look and

feel, the sound and human atmosphere of Romantic America.

REMINISCENCES OF THE SOUTH
SEAS. By JOHN LAP "ARGE. With thirty-two
illustrations in colour and sixteen in black-and-white ',
all from drawings and paintings by the author.
Royal Svo. cloth, i6s. net.

A record of travel in the South Seas by Mr. John La Farge, the
veteran artist. It is in the form of a continuous narrative, describing
the author's travels from place to place in the South Seas, his observations
of the lands and peoples with whom he came in contact, and is illustrated
with drawings and paintings made during his journey.

SHARPS, FLATS, GAMBLERS AND
RACEHORSES. By A. DICK LUC KM AN.

With twenty illustrations. Demy 8vo. cloth gilt,
I2S. 6d. net. \_Ready.

Also 25 copies numbered and signed by the Author,
it. 2s. net. {Ready.

A human document, all optimism and high spirits. It depicts a life which
is far removed from the experience of most of us, a life in which unusual
people do the strangest things for the oddest reasons. It is, in fact, a
truthful record of Bohemia, written by a man who knows the world he
writes about because he loves it and lives in it.

THE HUMANISTS' LIBRART. Royal 8w.
each I2s. net.

I. PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA: a Pla-
tonick Discourse upon Love. 'Translated by
THOMAS STANLEY and edited by
EDMUND G. GARDNER.

II. GIOVANNI DELL A CAS A: TheGalateo:
Of Manners and Behaviour. Translated by
ROBERT PETERSEN and edited by
J. E. SPINGARN.

The purpose of this series is to produce certain books selected from Renais-
sance literature in a form worthy of the great traditions of the printer's
art. The volumes will be set in the ' ' Montallegro " type and printed on
paper made by hand. The edition for sale in Great Britain is limited to
one hundred and fifty copies.

THE r./XISHING RACE. By JOSEPH
K. DIXON. With eighty illustrations in photo-
gravure. Royal %vo. cloth, 165. net.

Thi> with the history and customsof the Ameri.-an Indu-

now ((iiii-kly nearing extinction. It depicts the romance of Indian
life, the Imiian'^ \\ays of living :ind thinking, and his attitude toward
march of a civilisation that 'is crushing him out <«f existence.

INSECTS AND MAN. By C. A. EALAND,
M.A. With many drawings and reproductions from
photographs. Demy 8vo. cloth, 12s. net.

An account, wiittm \\ith authority, of all tho^e insects which affect man,
directly or indirectly -pai ultural pests, household vermin.

ther hook covers the same ground. It is the result of long and
lain irious research at first hand, and even to the unscientific reader is as
interesting as to the student it will be invaluable. Its illustrations have
particular importance.

THE LADY OF THE LAKE. By SIR
II 'ALTER SCOTT. Illustrated in colour by Howard
Chandler Christy. Crown 4(0. cloth in box, js. 6d. net.

who remember Howard Chandler Christy's successful illustrations
for the editions of ' Kvangeline' and 'The Courtship of Miles Standish,'
both of which quickly went out of print in this country, will welcome
another cLssir ilhistnv.l by him. As a beautiful gift-book the volume

has few equals.

EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS. By ARCHI-
H ALT) HENDERSON, author of « George Bernard

:v : His Life and Works? Large post 8vo. cloth,
6s. net.

Herein are considered six eminent figures in contemporary dramatic litera-
ture--August Strindberg, llenrik Ibsen, Maurice Maeterlinck, Oscar
Wilde, Hernanl nville Barker — men who have left their stamp

upon the age by the distinctiveness and originality of their contributions.

THE GARDEN UNDER GLASS. By

If. /•'. ROU'LES. With frontispiece in colour and
Miiny practical diagrams and reproductions from photo-
graphs. Large post $vo. c/otby 6s. net. [Ready.

In this lnx>k, which is uniform with 'The Garden Week by Week' and
' The Perfect Garden,' the author deals in a thorough and comprehensive
manner with everything connected with the care and management of a
Dhoue. He tells DO* it may IK; made to aflord the maximum of
enjoyment, and how it may be kept gay at all times of the year.

MEDITERRANEAN MOODS: Footnotes
of Travel in the Islands of Mai lore a, Me nor c a,
Iblza and Sardinia. By J. E. CRAWFORD
FLITCH, M.A., author of <A Little Journey in
Spain.' With frontispiece in colour and thirty -two
illustrations in black and white. Cheap Edition.
Demy %vo. cloth, js. 6d. net.

* A book to store on the same revered shelf with Kinglake's " Eothen '
and Stevenson's "Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes." . . . . Mr.
Flitch finds exalted moments wherever he wanders.' — The Nation.

IN A CUMBERLAND DALE. By
PERCT WITHERS, author of Egypt of Yesterday
and To-day? With six Illustrations. Crown %vo.
cloth , 55. net.

The book begins and ends by the shore of Derwentwater, and it is the
story of a life's happiest years, of some of its most intimate moods and
reflections, and of many of its daily occurrences, more particularly those
due to the unusual isolation and wildness of the scene. The publisher
hopes that * In a Cumberland Dale ' may become the one classic and
essential book for all lovers and visitors to the Lake Country.

THE EUROPEAN TOUR. By GRANT
ALLEN. New Edition. Crown 8vo. 5*. net. {Ready.

A new and revised edition of Grant Allen's well-known work. It sets
out in clear detail, with reasons and explanations for every step, the ideal
tour for Englishmen, Americans and Colonials through Europe.

JOHN ADDINGTON STMONDS: A Bio-
graphical Study. By 7 AN WTCK BROOKS.
Crown Svo. cloth, $s. net.

A biography of rare charm and distinction, and yet more than a mere
biography, for Mr. Brooks attempts to place Symonds in relation to the
literary world of his own day and of the present.

THE RISE OF THE AMERICAN
PEOPLE. By ROLAND G. USHER, author of
4 Pan-Germanism? Large post 8vo. cloth, js. 6d. net.

A philosophical interpretation of American history and life, treating
with authority of the place of the United States in universal history, and
giving the results of a specialist's study of the economic and industrial
problems that confront the nation's ultimate development.

AMERICAN MASTERS OF PAINTING.

By CHARLES H. CAFF1N. Wi v-two

illustrations. Fcap. 4/0. cloth, 45. 6d. net.

A volume- ofappn-, the work of such emit an artists as

Sargent, John I.:i i-'arge, V- -Iwin AbU-y, and (icorge In ness.

The -c^pc .if the l>o«.k is broad, ami the- cril -t and unob-
scured.

VISTAS IN SI GILT. By ARTHUR
RIGGS. Illustrated. Crown %vo. cloth, 35. 6^

This hook is written with the object of bringing the attractions • •
and the significance of her dramatic history more prominently U-fore the
attention of traveller-. Ii is written in the unhurried mood of the holiday
wanderer.

ANECDOTES OF THE THEATRE.

Collected and arranged by ARTHUR H. ENG EL-
BACH, editor of < Anecdotes of Bench and Bar"
Crown 8vo. cloth, jj. 6d. net. \Ready.

Mr. Kngelbach's reputation as a collector of good stories was established
by his first volume, 'Anecdotes of Bench and Bar'; was increased by its
successor, 'Anecdotes of Pulpit and Parish': and will be yet further
enhanced hy the present volume. The book is full of good stories of the

world of the theatre.

HARRY QJJELCH: Literary
Edited, with a Biographical Introduction, by ERNh
BELFORT BAX. Crown *vo. 2s. 6d. net. [Ready.

* There are few so good and no tetter statements existing of the Socialist
position in its application to current events and living Questions than are
to be found in the articles of Henry Quelch,' says Mr. Bclfort Box in his
Introduction, and this volume is a collection of the best of those articles
and stories.

HOW TO BE HAPPY IN BUSINE
By RALPH A. FROST. Crown 8w. cloth,
2.f. 6d. net; sewed, is. net.

Although these notes were written primarily for those who c<>i
businesses, the author hopes that they will also prove a help to yoong men
who are ambitious to occupy positions of trust and respc: They

contain a few homely truths that are often overlooked because they are so
obvious.

HOME COOKERT IN WAR TIME. By

ERNEST OLVME/tVOW. Crown 8™. cloth,
is. 6d. net.

This book breaks fresh ground. It is not a compilation of hackneyed
recipes, nor does it advocate cheap and nasty economies. For over twenty
years the author has studied and practised the cookery of many nations.
He does not condemn the English tradition wholesale, but he shows how
the best wisdom of England and France may be combined in our kitchens.
He has also a good deal to say about the baying of birds, and beasts, and
fishes, and vegetables. Although the practical directions are clear and
ample, the book makes interesting reading from cover to cover. It will
stir up housekeepers who have grown slack, and it will kindle a zeal for
cookery in the breasts of many who have not troubled themselves to excel
in this vitally important art. Due regard is paid to the actual and pro-
bable conditions of our food supply during the war, and everybody
who acts on the advice given will recoup the cost of the book many
times over.

WHOM TOU SHOULD MARRY. With
an Introduction by ADA LE PERSON. Crown
%vo. boards, is. net.

Shows the qualities and character of persons born in each month of the
year, and whether, for instance, a man born in May should marry a woman
born in April. The publisher is not prepared to give here an opinion as
to whether or not it has any scientific value — but anyhow it is great fun.

THE HUMBUG OF THE WOMAN
MOVEMENT (The Fraud of Feminism).
By ERNEST BELFORT EAX, author of 'Essays
in Socialism,1 etc. Crown $vo. sewed, is. net.

A cheap re-issue of 'The Fraud of Feminism,' a succinct exposure of the
Modern Feminist Movement. ' Mr. Bax proves his case up to the hilt
.... a stimulating piece of work,' says The Observer.

THE BATTLE OF DORKING. By

GENERAL CHESNET. With an Introduction by
G. H. POWELL. Demy Svo. sewed, 6d. net.

{Ready.

A very timely re-issue of the famous book first published in 1871. ' In
this eloquent appeal, with its vivid descriptions and harrowing pathos,
few readers will not recognise parallel features to those of our own situa-
tion in 1914,' says Mr. Powell, in his Preface.

BOOKS FOR BOYS

THE BOrS' BOOK OF ASTRONOMY.
By ELLISON HAWKS, author of 'Stars.' With
four coloured and over one hundred black-and-white
illustrations. Large crown 8ve. cloth, 6s.

Mr. Klli.son Hawks, already well known n> a writer and lectur :

nomy, had one object in writing this book : he wanted to write
a book which would tell boys about tho heavenly Ixxiies in language which
they could understand and which would interest them. There is no other
book of the kind.

THE BOrS* BOOK OF PETS. By
W. PERCIVAL WESTELL, author of ' Animals
at Home,' 'British Bird Life' With coloured frontis-
piece and over one hundred black-and-white illustrations.
Large crown %vo. cloth, 6s.

Almost every boy possesses or longs to possess a pet of some kind or other,

and here is a book which will teach him all he can possibly want to kjiow

about his special pet, or about pets in general. Dogs, Rabbits, Guinea -

. Mice, Birds, Silkworms, all sorts and conditions of pets, receive

tig! i treatment here, and the volume is one which every boy will

treasure.

CHEAP EDITIONS

LOVE AND EXTRAS. By FRANK
RICHARDSON, is. net. \Ready.

'All those who prefer laughter-making books to any others — who does
not? if his confession be honest — will utter a loud "Eureka" over Mr.
Frank Richardson.'— The Pall Mall Gazette.

AUNT MAUD. By ERNEST OLD-
MEADOW. 2s. net.

* The heroine is drawn with quite remarkable insight. There is no imita-
tion, but the real article, palpitating with life, tossed about by passions
which she does not understand, struggling desperately, as most women
have to struggle at some time or other " to do the square thing.'"

The World.

RE-ISSUE

WITH THE FLEET: STUDIES IN NAVAL
LIFE. By FILSON TOUNG, author of < Christo-
pher Columbus' Crown 8vo. sewed, is. net.

4 It will not be too much to say that within the same compass no more
interesting account of personal experiences by a layman in living touch
with the Fleet, in the fulness of its activities, has appeared during the
lifetime of the present generation.' — The Navy.

FICTION

THE YELLOW T/CKI-'.-r. AND OTHER
STORIES. By FRANK Il./RKIS. 61.

Mi. \ rank Harris, who \\.i- editor of the Fort). ifW, has had as

many publishers as he has written l»ooks. I'ut n cspeare studies*

nor 'those wonderful collections of short stones. ' FMer Conklin1 and
' Months the Matador,' nor that great and sombre ncn ; imb,' has

won him a tithe of the re tit fraction of the reputation, th.r

work deserves. Why.-' Heaven alone knows! He has not wanted
enthusiastic admin-rs. ' Read Mr. I'.crnard Shaw about him in the preface
Misalliance." Uut first read this new book. How Mi nows

his world ! and how many sides of it he knows ! There seems to be a
prejudice against publishers expressing opinions about the value of the
goods they issue, but this publisher doubts if any one can produce a
:'>.glish \\riter of short stones than Mr. Frank 1 1 arris has proved
himself.

BETTT-ALL-ALONE. EyMEGVILLAR
6s.

Met; Yilhus has done quite a number of things. She is an
\\oman, and she has wrrtten a novel in French which was very successful.
She has given pleasure to the eye, and she has contributed articles about
1'aris and Brussels and New York to a number of the lighter English papers.
Just now she is nursing somewhere in Belgium. 'Betty-a! i her

first novel in Knglish. and it is both amusing and full of a shrewd, and yet
not unkindly, knowledge of the world. Her heroine is a young English
witli a thousand pounds, who decides to see more of life than she is h

it she stops at home in Bayswater. She goes first to Paris, and falls
into a set which, while it doesn't do her much harm, is certainly one of the
things that France should afford to do without when the war is over. She
frees herself just in time — and then she has other adventures.

THE SHT AGE. By JESSIE POPE, author

of 4 The Tracy Tubbse*: 6s.

ie-ic 1'opo at this day needs no introduction to readers. Her con-
tributions to the world's happiness are here further increased by the*
humorous stories of the shy age. Their gaiety is so infectious that perhaps
no hook could be more welcome at the present time. It is a book of the

.same kind as 'The Human Boy.'

ANTHONT THE ABSOLUTE. By
:MUEL MERWINy author of > The Citadel: 6s.

[Ready.

4 A clever story of white folk in China, sensational as to its incidents, but
excellently w ri'tten— a book to appeal to the literary as well as to lovers c
the startling ..... Something new and fresh. For both style and
here is a novel to recommend.' — The Odservtr.

i i

THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE. By
FLORENCE A. DRUMMOND, author of 'An
American Wooing' 6s. [Ready.

* Miss Drummond has a shrewd eye, a quick understanding, and a lively
pen ; we are never for a moment bored,' said The Glasgoiv Herald critic of
the author's first book, and her new novel fully sustains such a reputation.

MEMORIES OF SOCIAL LIFE IN
AUSTRALIA THIRTT TEARS AGO.

By Mrs. RAMSAT-LATE. 6s. {Ready.

The book is what its title suggests, but it is cast into the form of a story.
The Australia with which it deals is an Australia almost forgotten.
Originally published many years ago under the title of * Social Life in
Sydney,' it has long been out of print.

THE MARRIAGE TIE. By WILKINSON
SHERREN, author of l<Two Girls and a
Mannikin.1 6s. [Ready.

' An interesting and suggestive book in which social and economic problems
are sympathetically considered ; the one with which the book is mainly
concerned being the difficult problem of the illegitimate child. . . . The
book is a clever study and a thoughtful piece of work.' — The Morning Post,

BITTERSWEET. By GRANT RICHARDS,
author of 'Caviare! 6s.

Mr. Grant Richards's third attempt at doing the thing himself.

DUBLINERS. By JAMES JOTCE. 35. 6d.

[Ready.

* It is easy to say of Gorky that he is a man of genius. To say the same of
Mr. James Joyce requires more courage, since his name is little known ;
but a man of genius is precisely what he is. He has an original outlook, a
special method, a complete reliance on his own powers of delineation and
presentment. . . . He has plenty of humour.' — The New Statesmen.

VICTORIA UNIVERSITY
PRATT LIBRARY

585-4470

TW frank Hirm Pittsbu U.

"«•
tot

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